But here I am, anyway, Master Owl, not properly asleep, no, and not
properly dead nor dreaming, but certainly, through these phrases others
formed so many times before me, with only a slight rearrangement, like
the tic of an unsteady scrawl, the twitch of an old shawl, passing both
into and out of my mind. No one ever truly invented a language. Heirs,
all of us, rich or poor, to the grounds of these estates that lie around
us, follies and ponds, sheds and meadows, the neglected, the abandoned,
and the well-kept as well, their novelties and antiquities equally
alien and familiar, ours for now, as we little things who walk among
them, ants in their kitchens, peepers in their wells, tourists in their
bedrooms, are theirs. This is occult, Master Owl. Eery human occupation
and utterance, every little product of every little subculture is
occult.
And in this chaste sense only, I am. Among the nothings that have
made me and make me as I touch them I am. We are such things as dreams
alone have never made, as beds have never denned, although we come from
them, forgetful of every thing except that we remember, surprising
ourselves three times: I am. I am nothing. Here I am.
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