At last I can figure out the nature of that whisking sound which I hear whenever I leave the room
It is not really the sound of wind through television aerials, safety screens, and the holes in old socks and underwear dangling on clotheslines
But Fate, rubbing its hands.
Whisk whisk it must certainly be wearing gloves
Whisk whisk or else it has fingerprints ridged and immortal as corduroy
And nevertheless, despite the threat
Here I am proceeding as if it were normal
As if a future came automatically, without one's having to predict it, without requiring that personal conception precede all circumstances and occurrences
As if any difficulties experienced last night, today, and tomorrow
And the tragedy of yesterday, with its latent triumphs,
Were not illusions of some will or other,
Harmony of hope and trepidation

" Whisk whisk whisk there you go again, Fate, swathed and whisking away
Now that I have thrown back your disguise and found you hidden under the mask of the whisk
I know, you will not go, and it is time for a new incognito "
(Listen to how clever it thinks it is outside our windows coming down the street again with that crunch crunch crunch squeak crunch crunch crunch)