An extract from Plexus, book two of The Rosy Crucifixion trilogy:

My hunger and curiosity drive me forward in all directions at once. At one and the same time I am interested and absorbed in Hindu music (having become acquainted with a Hindu composer I met in an Indian restaurant), in the ballet russe, in the German expressionist movement, in Scriabins’ piano compositions, in the art of the insane (thanks to Prinzhorn), in Chinese chess, in boxing and wrestling bouts, in hockey matches, in medieval architecture, in the mysteries connected with the Egyptian and Greek underworlds, in the cave drawings of the Cro-Magnon man, in the trade guilds of former times, in everything pertaining to the new Russia, and so on and so forth, from one thing to another, sliding from one level to another as naturally and easily as if I were using an escalator. When having finished a long passage, I would close the book and listen to Ulric expatiate lovingly on the painters he adored. The mere sound of their names put me in ecstasy: Taddeo Gaddi, Signorelli, Fra Lippo Lippi, Piero della Francesca, Mantegna, Uccello, Cimabue. Piranesi, Fra Angelico, and such like. The names of towns and cities were of equal fascination: Ravenna, Mantua, Siena, Pisa, Bologna, Tiepolo, Firenze, Milano, Torino. 

Thus one evening, continuing our festal bouts on the splendors of Italy at the French-Italian grocery, Ulric and I, joined later by Hymie and Steve Romero, got into such a state of exaltation that two Italians who were seated at the end of the table stopped conversing with each other and listened in open-mouthed admiration as we moved rapidly from one figure to another, one town to another. Hymie and Romero, equally intoxicated by a language which was as foreign to them as it was to the two Italians, remained silent, contenting themselves, with replenishing the drinks. Exhausted finally, and about to pay up, the two Italians suddenly began to clap their hands. Bravo! Bravo! they exclaimed. So beautiful! We were embarrassed. The situation demanded another round of drinks. Joe and Louis joined us, offering us a choice liqueur. Then we began to sing. Fat Louis, moved to the guts, began to weep joyously. He begged us to stay a little longer, promising to fix us a beautiful rum omelette with some caviar on the side. I rolled home in a cab, singing like a man under anaesthesia. Unable to navigate the stop, I sat on the bottom steps laughing to myself, hiccoughing, mumbling and muttering crazily, orating to the birds, the alley cats, the telephone poles. Finally I made my way up the steps, slowly, painfully, sliding back a step or two and starting up again, reeling from one side to the other. A veritable Sisyphian ordeal. I fell on the bed fully dressed and went sound asleep.

There is no master design, no grand narrative arc, simply a constellation of scattered incidents, bright and fleeting, gloriously disconnected. Inevitably, all Nobel prize-worthy metaphysical questions collapse, finding answers in one simple word: aimlessness. It is purely the fact there is no agreed-upon consensus on the structure of all of this that makes it overflowing with potential and unbounded from fixed destinations. This is not a cause for existential crisis but rather celebration. Miller proudly decides to roll up Sisyphus’ rock while dancing, trousers to the knees. Who said Camus pictured his exemplary worker with clothes on? 

An extract from Sexus, book one of The Rosy Crucifixion trilogy:

We had finished eating and we were having a third or fourth drink; the place was cosily filled, everybody was in a good mood. Suddenly, at a table nearby, a young man rose to his feet with a glass in hand and addressed the house. He wasn't drunk, he was just in a pleasant state of euphoria, as Dr. Kronski would put it. He was explaining quietly and easily that he had taken the liberty of calling attention to himself and his wife, to whom he raised his glass, because it was the first anniversary of their wedding, and because they felt so good about it that they wanted everybody to know it and to share their happiness. He said he didn't want to bore us by making a speech, that he had never made a speech in his life, and that he wasn't trying to make a speech now, but he just had to let everybody know how good he felt and how good his wife felt, that maybe he'd never feel this way again all his life. He said he was just a nobody, that he worked for a living and didn't make much money (nobody did any more), but he knew one thing and that was that he was happy, and he was happy because he had found the woman he loved, and he still loved her just as much as ever, though they were now married a whole year. (He smiled.) He said he wasn't ashamed to admit it before the whole world. He said he couldn't help telling us all about it, even if it bored us, because when you're very happy you want others to share your happiness. 

He was so completely carried away by this idea that everybody should participate in their joy that he went on talking for twenty minutes or more, roaming from one thing to another like a man sitting at the piano and improvising. Nothing he said sounded ridiculous, however sentimental his words may have been. He was utterly sincere, utterly genuine, and utterly possessed by the realization that to be happy is the greatest boon on earth. It wasn't courage which had made him get up and address us, for obviously the thought of getting to his feet and delivering a long extemporaneous speech was as much of a surprise to him as it was to us. Soon the drinks began to flow and they were singing, and then they began to dance, and they danced differently than they would have before; some got up and danced who hadn't shaken a leg for years, some danced with their own wives; some danced alone, giddy, intoxicated with their own grace and freedom; some sang as they danced; some just beamed good−naturedly at every one whose glance they happened to encounter. It was astonishing what an effect a simple, open declaration of joy could bring about. His words were nothing in themselves, just plain ordinary words which any one could summon at a moment's notice.