he had looked out and muted the windows to watch their reverberant shudders and coinjar-rattles in the adjacent—from slurs in the dry wood, eddies bent by hill-fire from the felling of storms, the patter of thunder outside raised flimsy moors and drawled-out horizons above the tailored stocks of thistle. the trees jangled out, dispersing. if theirs was a wanton poverty, then that poverty, that glory, debauched their arboreal copses to steer them heavenward clothed in webs at the edge of the world, soldered into the weaves of violet rooted in damp scarabs like a bridgeport pent-up and edging forward, slowly gathering up their solidarity and flinging it into suspensions and the stronger jealousies of earth. all these things mounted his vision because he had not slept for three days. closing his eyes was the effort, no more than their channels of dirty vales and precipitous longings for halves, for tower stocks, their wanes of collapse—his sandy rheums—breaching sound, layering down for evening,pallor?no,no, not yet, this is the entry, the perhaps of the lunge. so he took all the books off his shelves, stacked them up next to the foot of his chair, and began to read. “in the beginning”—blooddeep into the chest of the king, his thorns, his resuscitation for a stream of vultures—us salmons, he thought, we couldn't last long enough to taste home, couldn't pass the cave without shade or the iron veins of propitiation; stones piled to the mountain; blackguard hyacinths smoky-lipped, and a horsedrawn carriage arriving empty, despised hounds and one hundred miles heaving fire; rebellion at the wake, his euolgy read:“i would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if i were wrong.”; but he bled into the words, their spaces, and tore through venom like veils. he stood up, stretching, and stomached a few pieces.