Each morning he finds at the sink myriads of tiny brown insects - a mass of virile pencil dots - merging and diverging. Where did they come from? He stares at the unanswering marble top and surrounding tiled walls. By contrast with the restless insects they seem more inert, more than ever mere philistine matter. Momentarily he warms up to the skirmishing armies massed on the rim of the sink, the abyss. His daily pathological lesson. Nothingness hell-bent on nowhere. Godlike he observes for a few moments this ridiculous parody on human existence, sponge in hand. No angel parts the ceiling to shout, Hold! And with one rough sweep he wipes away this living smear of fig-jam (including one or two artists and philosophers who have separated themselves form the frothing brown mass) and restores to the marble top its cold ironical surface.