He could never get enough of the mundane paradises despite having woken from their false promises again and again. He would have liked to slow desire down so much that he could experience it with the freedom of a lucid dream. If he was still present in it he was not, as usually, too much present, and so the world showed him its normally hidden face, and it was like being inside the music. It was fire and flood, the elements of destruction and he would emerge from them reborn into a delicious stupor, time expanding in broken ripples after having been pinched to the agonising extreme. If there was a truth in this he knew that it was not his truth, but it was a glorious dead-end, pivotal and arresting.