But these fragments keep rolling in. Where are they coming from – on the west wind, perhaps?

… and after the irradiation, nothing seemed to matter so much. There were phantoms rolling on the high chaparral, we all saw pyramids (cone photoreceptors, probably, writ large as the Yves Tanguy memories came flooding in) but we didn’t know what [a gap in the manuscript here] … wolves of memory, horses of desire, charging down from the strange plateaus. Somewhere in the orange noon, something seemed to shimmer, as if offering a hope of relief, and the thought came to all of us (Fabor, Bruna, the dwarf and the numberless tribe of acrobats) simultaneously: How is it possible that so many of us remain cheerful when we live in the certain fear of imminent death? But then, dancing, entranced, we built the …

What are the next words? I can’t make them out; the light is shimmering. ‘Tin temple’? ‘Skin tremble’? Is it not ‘built’ but ‘felt’?

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