I you were to have a Pynchon passage read ...

[Antonin Scriabin]

"... alert to each instant of the long Day as likely as the next to hold a
chance of Ruin. In their Dreams they ever return to Prisons of Stone, to
Gates with Seals 'tis Death to break, the odor of soap and Slops, the
Stillness of certain Corridors, the unchallengeable Love of a Tyrant,
Yellow Light from unseen Watch-Fires  flickering upon the Wall, and
unexpectedly, rounding a particular Corner, to the tall Clock from Home,
ringing the Quarter-Hour."
On Sep 15, 2014 9:39 PM, "Dave Monroe" <against.the.dave at gmail.com> wrote:

> ... @ yr funeral, what would it be? Thanks.
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