It was a splendid sunshine. For if the sun is like an eye that changes day into night with each of its flickers, or like a mother who caters her child through the day with the rhythm of breakfast, lunch, and dinner, then the morning has been started successfully in the refectory and was well on its way to the Chapterhouse Restaurant. She has had orange juice, cereal, and coffee. She has appropriated two apples and a tub of marmalade. She has reached saturation. Many people never reach saturation. Here she glanced vaguely towards the polished drops of moisture on the grass and as the glitter of her watch rose to meet it, in the distance she made out the figures of the other members of the group, discretely leaning on their elbows or dozing off in the silent heat of the somehow Mediterranean greenery of the park, like ancient gods and goddesses listening to Hermes on the affairs of a world far below. They needed entertainment, clap your hands and sing if you live where motley is worn.
But after breakfast, what comes next? If breakfast, then a cigarette. And also a number of meals to be had. But at least she's had breakfast. Breakfast she was sure of. Then... A cigarette? One cigarette? The figures were moving slowly in the halo of light, their limbs ejecting soft moaning sounds as they streched. They needed guidance, they needed to be provoked into action. One cigarette... Is it smell, is it taste? When will she have it? A cigarette... She asked herself what is a man sitting in the grass in the sunshine, fingering an unlit cigarette, a symbol of. If she were a composer, she would compose a fugue on that attitude. The movement away from the mouth and back to it would be repeated in different tones and the explanatory circles of the brown end would spiral into the white wilderness of the soul. It was a splendid sunshine, after breakfast. After breakfast, there comes lunch. Lunch --
