It was more gradual than that for me—there was no ZANG. When I first felt the mescaline come on, I was sitting outside on the deck reading while keeping an eye on two bright yellow heads slicing through the rippling water—a pair of strong swimmers. I had glanced up from my book when I suddenly felt a wave of revulsion, almost a nausea, for print. Why would anyone ever want to read? Work to tease meaning from all these ugly black marks? Suddenly the whole enterprise seemed absurd. No, what I wanted and needed to do now was not to read but to look—at the dark blue water, at the yellow heads
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