->7) ->7) +7> ~<- ((<- (<<-<br >Tuesday， June 15<br >4:I2 A.M.<br > Sam Tabor woke up slowly， drifting in and out of sleep in that long， weightless<br >moment that is so warm and comfortable and sheltered. The phrase had come<br >into his head， it seemed， along with the first faint ray of consciousness..， the<br >vanquished of... and he kept running it round and round in a circle， the end<br >back into the beginning， tagging the first word onto the last， the at on the swami.<br > The philosophical message was there--the revelation--in such absolute clarity<br >that he knew very well (drifting in and out of consciousness) that this time he<br >would not lose it as he always seemed to lose these early morning messages. Either<br >lose it or remember it so fragmentarily that what had seemed so important would<br >be nothing， would be gibberish， would be stupid， would be false. Would be lies.<br >This time it had such a sweet rhythm， such a sweet， airless merry-go-round<br >rhythm， that even while he drifted back and forth， in and out， he was able to hold<br >onto it. Even when a black splotch would squeeze down upon him， blotting part<br >of it out， the mind， through this new perception it had of itself， would pick it up<br >again， all by itself， rolling on， rhythm on wheels， clickety-clack . . . I was young<br >... and he knew that this time he was indeed peering around hidden corners，<br >searching the vast， illuminated skies. For once， his mind was accepting itself，<br >congratulating itself， applauding itself. At last.<br > And then--fool!--he lost it. Fool!<br > Through sheer will and expanding consciousness he had held off， fought off，<br >sleep and then， like a fool ("Self-indulgence and sloth，" she used to say)， lost it<br >while he was telling himself how brilliant he was. Fool again; fooled again--fool，<br >fool， fool.<br > The heart， sick of itself-sickened--missed a beat， lifting him one more layer<br >out of sleep， up through the cloudy membrane， and~on t move; don t even<br >breathe--there it was again， the sweet refrain， pulsating anew， struggling back to<br >life， blip-blip， inhale-exhale， clickety-clack . . . At that time<br > The jolt of the missed heartbeat had lifted him physically， sitting him up， over<br >onto his feet， stumbling to the bureau. The hand， reaching for the chain on the<br >dim lamp， somehow closed upon Vera s eyebrow pencil (that was a good sign; if<br >he d had to go searching for a pen it might have been too late) and still half-asleep，<br >