The whistle

I began again to wonder at the whistle, not that it was any louder than usual, no more than a tremor. Only that after a long period of drone, succumbing to drone, living only by drone, I had started to hear the whistle somewhere else, somewhere I knew not. And as the whistle died down again there I was, back at that strange house in France allergic to all and to myself or between Zurich granite shimmers, wanting nothing, knowing nothing, unlearning my needs and wants, desirous of no end, for everything had ended, had passed, there was no future because no movement could happen there and so I shrank I bludgeoned, so the whistle went on.