บท 127: Aidan San Francisco — 1986 Infinite Variety

Aidan sees a world of subtlety. Light and shadow alter everything. Shadows of umber and indigo give depth and texture. Light makes frond tops silver blue. A single leaf holds an infinite variety of green. Edges are no longer clear. Borders no longer sharp.

Birds sing outside. Aidan should not be able to hear them through his window. He should be isolated from the life and confusion beyond the pane, but somehow trills and coos, whistles and warbles carol into the room knocking him off balance. This domain of color and light, harmony and refrain, makes him feel alien.

Aidan has always lived completely in the present, never remembering the past or contemplating the future. He is the never-ending now, a Buddhist’s ideal, a Christian’s nightmare. He is outside of time, but now, inchoate memories waft through his consciousness.