He was at the bar reading like a maniac, getting caught up in the flow; sensing the texture and tone; feeling the cyclone structure spiraling out brutality, farce, sex, inchoate love-dreams; and aching out its eye a demand for intimate examination, in some sections practically tears as well; if only to feel a little human.
He was on page 512 and felt himself swirling down a giant drain, so large that those kinked hairs and dark fluids took on monstrous proportions, a familiar, filthy prelude to the inevitability of that dark tube at the bottom.
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