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- Филип Киндред Дик
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Mr
.
Tagomi
looked
to
the
other
whites
;
all
watched
with
hostile
expressions
.
And
none
stirred
.
Bardo
Thodol
existence
,
Mr
.
Tagomi
thought
.
Hot
winds
blowing
me
who
knows
where
.
This
is
vision
—
of
what
?
Can
the
animus
endure
this
?
Yes
,
the
Book
of
the
Dead
prepares
us
:
after
death
we
seem
to
glimpse
others
,
but
all
appear
hostile
to
us
.
One
stands
isolated
.
Unsuccored
wherever
one
turns
.
The
terrible
journey
—
and
always
the
realms
of
suffering
,
rebirth
,
ready
to
receive
the
fleeing
,
demoralized
spirit
.
The
delusions
.
He
hurried
from
the
lunch
counter
.
The
doors
swung
together
behind
him
;
he
stood
once
more
on
the
sidewalk
.
Where
am
I
?
Out
of
my
world
,
my
space
and
time
.
The
silver
triangle
disoriented
me
.
I
broke
from
my
moorings
and
hence
stand
on
nothing
.
So
much
for
my
endeavor
.
Lesson
to
me
forever
.
One
seeks
to
contravene
one
’
s
perceptions
—
why
?
So
that
one
can
wander
utterly
lost
,
without
signposts
or
guide
?
This
hypnagogic
condition
.
Attention
-
faculty
diminished
so
that
twilight
state
obtains
;
world
seen
merely
in
symbolic
,
archetypal
aspect
,
totally
confused
with
unconscious
material
.
Typical
of
hypnosis
-
induced
somnambulism
.
Must
stop
this
dreadful
gliding
among
shadows
;
refocus
concentration
and
thereby
restore
ego
center
.
He
felt
in
his
pockets
for
the
silver
triangle
.
Gone
.
Left
the
thing
on
the
bench
in
the
park
,
with
briefcase
.
Catastrophe
.
Crouching
,
he
ran
back
up
the
sidewalk
,
to
the
park
.
Dozing
bums
eyed
him
in
surprise
as
he
hurried
up
the
path
.
There
,
the
bench
.
And
leaning
against
it
still
,
his
briefcase
.
No
sign
of
the
silver
triangle
.
He
hunted
.
Yes
.
Fallen
through
to
grass
;
it
lay
partly
hidden
.
Where
he
had
hurled
it
in
rage
.
