One can walk the streets. Go to the Park. Read. Eat. (But not sleep.) One can take a sightseeing bus to Chinatown. The taxi dance halls are open. The all-night movies. Any of numerous friends-- or my brother-- would sit up and talk till morning. I could by simply lifting the telephone and dialing a number fill my apartment with assorted pretty girls. Or just Gwen. Why not? The image appeared the woman-lines, the dry-martini taste of a woman's libido Gwen's cuprous hair; and it was not Gwen at all but an image in myself. Who she was, I had no idea. But I knew I'd had enough of the Gwens in this world to last until my next reincarnation or, possibly, the second coming of Christ in Anno Double-Domini. (Tomorrow, I thought, begins another reincarnation) It was enough of a list. I had now collected sufficient Things to Do so as to go on sitting in my chair, which was all I desired to do: I had somewhat collected myself. The sky belched light. I leaned forward, looked, and half of the hazy stars were erased, gone, done for, hidden behind an invisible tumble of nimbus. My nerves let themselves down another degree. I went around the room, emptying an ashtray the night maid had overlooked, fixing myself a glass of hot, powdered coffee. And back to my chair. Now, across the parapet, across the well-learned silhouette of buildings opposite, the undersides of clouds were heated up. Their contours showed in brief, stammering flashes of lavender, as if they were gigantic lamps which some celestial electrician was trying to connect with a frayed cord. At my side, the exhausted curtain came to momentary life--then perished again in the swelter of the room. Gwen was an image. Whoever she was, I saw what I saw, looking from within to what lay within. Another item for Forbisher-Laroche: Why visit the fille de joie? Because she is more I than She. Yvonne, then? I gave the matter my consideration--and half an eye to the approaching weather. "Blow, blow, thou bitter wind Thou art not so unkind In this man's latitude." Hark ye, Sir Bughouse: You don't know anything. All you know about Yvonne is what you read in the newspaper advertisements. She is a collection of costly, streamlined surfaces. An accumulation from high-class department store counters. And a statistic from a book that has not yet been published owing, doubtless, to pressures from the Neo-Christian-Centrist-Totalitarian Renaissance. Did you think she was a woman? She was a dream. An arrangement of electrons, a mess of mesons, in your cranium, Sir Spatterwit. There must be blah-diddie-blah-blah (statistics, pal) happy homosexual hours for housewives and houris ergo we, Wylie, have witnessed Onesuch. What a premise! What a casual conclusion. O Lydian ease! O languorous Lesbos! (O legislators! You left out the ladies! And our legally innocent Yvonne has homed to Pasadena's passes, also Healthy, wealthy and wise.)