Hope for help in the gal­le­ry all in yel­low, all in yel­low, skim­ming to ride, milk inside all in yel­low, all in yel­low. But where is the music, the music all on yon­der green hill ? So tur­ning and twir­ling asun­der as to never be still ? As to go for a dan­cer in yel­low, for to dance to the far brim, all in yel­low, all in yel­low sli­ding and rea­dy to come in. In ages past the cover thi­ckens, clouds bank in the sky ; the leaves go down, all in yel­low faring well, to pass by. …

Whichever time stan­dard we’re on, the ques­tion of how fast and whe­ther it’s worth it, we are under­laid by drift in the form of mantle, and that should be at least a start. If the woman gets up in the mor­ning you could say it was to be anoin­ted, if that (in this time) weren’t so puny and obse­quious. The wrong stan­dard makes it so, and the bru­tal fact is that there’s no simple dif­fe­rence of opi­nion invol­ved : the wrong is an entailment, and fol­lows into the glo­wing tail of “his­to­ry” as for example the Marxist comet burns with such love­ly, fla­ring des­truc­tion. That we could come off…