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And she reflects, just above that, on the mattress
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that he must sleep in, and this is one of those great Pynchon sentences.
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This is a question, but it comes in the declarative form,too.
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what voices overheard
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flinders of luminescent gods glimpsed among the wallpaper's
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stained foliage, candle stubs lit to rotate in the
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air over him prefiguring the cigarette he or a friend must fall
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asleep someday smoking, thus to end among the flaming,
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secret salts held all those years by the insatiable stuffing of amattress
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that could keep vestiges of every nightmare sweat,
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helpless overflowing bladder, viciously, tearfully consummated wet
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dream like the memory bank to a computer of the lost.