Blue sky, tiny baby suns in each one of our badges; our faces are unclouded by the insanity of thoughts. Rays.⁠ ⁠… Do you picture it? Everything seems to be made of a kind of smiling, a ray-like matter. And the brass measures: Tra-ta-ta-tam.⁠ ⁠… Tra-ta-ta-tam⁠ ⁠… stamping on the brassy steps which sparkle in the sun; with every step you rise higher and higher into the dizzy blue heights.⁠ ⁠… Then, as this morning on the dock, again I saw as if for the first time in my life, the impeccably straight streets, the glistening glass of the pavement, the divine parallelopipeds of the transparent dwellings, the square harmony of the grayish-blue rows of Numbers. And it seemed to me that not past generations, but I myself, had won a victory over the old god and the old life, that I myself had created all this. I felt like a tower: I was afraid to move my elbow, lest the walls, the cupola and the machines should fall to pieces.

Then without warning⁠—a jump through centuries: I remembered (apparently through an association by contrast) a picture in the museum, a picture of an avenue of the twentieth century, a thundering many-colored confusion of men, wheels, animals, billboards, trees, colors, and birds.⁠ ⁠… They say all this once actually existed!