One passes imperceptibly from one scene, one age, one life to another.

Suddenly,

walking down a street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the first time that the years

have flown, that all this has passed forever and will live on only in memory; and then the

memory turns inward with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and

incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie, while walking a street, while lying with a woman,

while reading a book, while talking to a stranger. . . suddenly, but always with terrific insistence

and always with terrific accuracy, these memories intrude, rise up like ghosts and permeate

every fiber of ones being.

- Henry Miller Black Spring