These thoughts lead me to conclude that my brain has become fevered by the heat.
Tonight, the Edward Hopper painting called Sunday Morning has been popping into my head. I keep seeing the red brick facade, the heavy cornice, the empty windows, the long shadows, the deserted pavement. It is the first Hopper painting I remember seeing, though I saw it only in a small reproduction in a book. I was fascinated by it. It reminded me of something I couldn't quite identify. There is in that painting the massy palpability of the scene and a sense of utter vacancy, and the combination of the two is most disturbing, yet alluring. The unidentifiable thing in that picture is something I have always wanted and never found. The heat in my head is making me want it more than ever, but I don't think I'll ever find it. I think maybe it only ever existed in Hopper's imagination, and perhaps not consciously even there. I have come to see reality the way I see that painted scene; utterly familiar, yet impenetrable.
Yeah, that's definitely a fevered brain.
The everyday fire
by Octavio Paz
For Juan Garcia Ponce
Like the air constructing and deconstructing invisible buildings on the pages of geology, on the planetary mesas: man. His language scarcely a grain burning in the palm of space. Syllables are incandescent. And they are plants: their roots fracture silence, their branches build houses of sound. Syllables: they twine and untwine, playing at likeness and unlikeness. Syllables: they ripen in the mind, flower in the mouth. Their roots drink night, eat light. Languages: trees incandescent with leaves of rain. Foliage of lightning, geometries of echoes: on a leaf of paper the poem constructs itself like day on the palm of space.