âNow there grows among all the rooms, replacing the nightâs old smoke, alcohol and sweat, the fragile, musaceous odor of Breakfast: flowery, permeating, surprising, more than the color of winter sunlight, taking over not so much through any brute pungency or volume as by the high intricacy to the weaving of its molecules, sharing the conjurorâs secret by whichâthough it is not often Death is told so clearly to fuck offâthe 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 morningâs banana fragrance to meander, repossess, prevail.â
-Gravityâs Rainbow














