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Now there grows among all the rooms, replacing the night's old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating surprising, more than the color of winter sun-light, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjuror's secret by which-though it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck off-the living genetic chains prove even labyrinthine enough to preserve some human face down ten or twenty generations . . . so the same assertion-through-structure allows this war morning's banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail. Is there any reason not to open every window, and let the kind scent blanket all Chelsea? As a spell, against falling objects . . .

Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation. Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death. - WERNHER VON BRAUN

The sun is still below the horizon. The day feels like rain, but for now the air is uncommonly clear.

He takes some time lighting a cigarette. He won't hear the thing come in. It travels faster than the speed of sound. The first news you get of it is the blast. Then, if you're still around, you hear the sound of it coming in. What if it should hit exactly-ahh, no—for a split second you'd have to feel the very point, with the terrible mass above, strike the top of the skull. ... Pirate hunches his shoulders, bearing his bananas down the corkscrew ladder.