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

[Irving Schwartz]

<div id="AOLMsgPart_2_6c1abebf-eed8-4040-b47f-3911fcd24daa"><div class="aolReplacedBody"><div class="aolmail_gmail_quote"><font face="HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" size="3"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.301961); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There is time, if you need the comfort, to touch the person next to you, or to reach between your own cold legs ... or, if song must find you, here's one They never taught anyone to sing, a hymn by William Slothrop, centuries forgotten and out of print, sung to a simple and pleasant air of the period. Follow the bouncing ball: 

There is a Hand to turn the time, 
Though thy Glass today be run, 
Till the Light that hath brought the Towers low 
Find the last poor Pret'rite one... 
Till the Riders sleep by ev'ry road, 
All through our crippl'd Zone, 
With a face on ev'ry mountainside, 
And a Soul in ev'ry stone... 

Now everybody—</span></font>

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