They were not the same eyes with which he had last looked out at this particular scene, and the brain which interpreted the images the eyes resolved was not the same brain. There had been no surgery involved, just the continual wrenching of experience.
The night seemed like an alive thing to him at this moment, the dark Earth around him a being in which he was rooted.
He could feel like a tingle on distant nerve ends the flood of a far river, the roll of invisible hills, the knot of heavy rain clouds parked somewhere away to the south.
He could sense, too, the thrill of being a tree, which was something he hadn't expected. He knew that if felt good to curl your toes in the earth, but he'd never realized it could feel quite as good as that. He could sense an almost unseemly wave of pleasure reaching at him all the way from the New Forest. He must try this summer, he thought, to see what having leaves felt like…
Douglas Adams was known as a comedic writer, but his prose could be quite lovely when the scene required it.
...I concur with you..!
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