This is the most deliriously bent passage of fiction I’ve read in the last week. Note that during that time I was also reading this.
“And, even as the objects in her office settled massively against her, they became, on another level, remote; they receded in a meaningful, terrifying fashion. They were losing, she realized, their animation, their — so to speak — working souls. The animae which inhabited them were departing as her powers of psychological projection deteriorated. The objects had lost their heritage of the familiar; by degrees they became cold, remote, and — hostile. Into the vacuum left by the decline in her relatedness to them the things around her achieved their original isolation from the taming forces which normally emanated from the human mind; they became raw, abrupt, with jagged edges capable of cutting, gashing, inflicting fatal wounds. She dare not stir. Death, in potentiality, lay in every object; even the hand-wrought brass ash tray on her desk had become irregular, and in its lack of symmetry it obtained projecting planes, shot out surfaces which, like spines, could tear her open if she was stupid enough to come near.”
From Philip K. Dick, Now Wait For Last Year (New York: Daw Books, 1981 ), 69.