[Oedipa Maas] awoke at last to find herself getting laid.
He gazes through sunlight's buttresses, back down the refectory at the others, wallowing in their plenitude of bananas, thick palatals of their hunger lost somewhere in the stretch of morning between them and himself. A hundred miles of it, so suddenly. Solitude, even among the meshes of this war, can when it wishes so take him by the blind gut and touch, as now, possessively. Pirate's again some other side of a window, watching strangers eat breakfast.
Our history is an aggregate of last moments
Like so many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts--census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.
She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.
They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.
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