It was all very odd, strange indeed.
When he returned to the present, returned to the computer screen before him, there was a lull about the room. Grandeur swept through, carried him away on the wings of angels. In swooped the chariots. Loud were the trumpets. Who's to say when the orgasm took place? If there was one at all or if it was prolonged, fluctuating, heightening with each climax of the piece?
Surely, there must be singularity. Surely, Whitman must have felt this—Twain, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, too. The greats. Real American heroes. He wondered if through him they felt the rise of the digital age, if Hemingway (shotgun-induced crater still bleeding on the back of his head) could experience the internet through his fingertips, his eyes, his brain. And if so, could he see 1922 as Gatsby and Nick might have seen it?
The rising, the falling, the ever-warping sensation of time.
Before long, he would notice a mistake—a misplaced coma or sentence fragment not intended to be a sentence fragment or an incomprehensible idea being expressed or a passage hinged around awkward exposition or philosophical ruminations, such as singularity between authors of different generations in the form of a masturbation metaphor, that lead nowhere—and would lose the feeling, would drift into self-deprecation, quit and call himself an accountant.
Was there a singularity among accounts?