The following transcription represents how a printed text based on the manuscript revisions might appear.
The future? Nothing—nothing.
At best, a shoddy ticking
For the beds of tradesman.
Lately, though, of an afternoon
I have taken to falling asleep
In this my clothing.
I dream, of course, of the past, as a rule:
It’s precious dust writhing
<Along>
<Within> Down an amber ray.
I am wakened by my breathing
Harsh with [terror of] <the> energies
I had mistaken for my own.