It’s a small town.
From Small Town – Philip K. Dick :
Then he carried the new model carefully over to the table and glued it in the correct spot. The place where Larson’s Pump and Valve works had been. The new building gleamed in the overhead light, still moist and shiny.
Haskel rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of satisfaction. The Valve works was gone. He had destroyed it . Obliterated it. Removed it from the town. Below him was Woodland – without the Valve Works. A mortuary instead.
False Evidence Appearing Real.
A Primrose by any other name.
Bleak House – Charles Dickens :
“I saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress, and like the flowers, and had no brightness left but the brightness of her sunken eyes. I saw that the dress had been put upon the rounded figure of a young woman, and that the figure upon which it now hung loose, had shrunk to skin and bone. Once, I had been taken to see some ghastly waxwork at the fair, representing I know not what impossible personage lying in state.
Once, I had been taken to one of our old marsh churches to see a skeleton in the ashes of a rich dress, that had been dug out of a vault under the church pavement. Now, wax-work and skeleton seemed to have dark eyes that moved and looked at me. I should have cried out, if I could.”
There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows substance up—
Then covers the Abyss with Trance—
So Memory can step
As one within a Swoon—
Goes safely—where an open eye—
Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –
It bloomed and dropt, a Single Noon—
The Flower—distinct and Red—
I, passing, thought another Noon
Another in its stead
Will equal glow, and thought no More
But came another Day
To find the Species disappeared—
The Same Locality—
The Sun in place—no other fraud
On Nature’s perfect Sum—
Had I but lingered Yesterday—
Was my retrieveless blame—
Much Flowers of this and further Zones
Have perished in my Hands
For seeking its Resemblance—
But unapproached it stands—
The single Flower of the Earth
That I, in passing by
Unconscious was—Great Nature’s Face
Passed infinite by Me—