It
was a home. Its chiminée was gathering kindling to itself; I was given
to drink from a cup made of thin flowery ceramic and invited to browse
the collection of candleholders, some of them painted by hand. I had
been through rainclouds crossing the sea-windy land like individual
dangerous beasts, and sheltered there, in a hook of the general
labyrinth whose hedges and surfaces were in the resistless process of
removing, one by one, the thick skins of my mind until any wall would
transmit a static electricity of time. Later, another raincloud, more
formidable still, was massing in the direction of the setting sun. I
chose a hanger and a wagon of precarious hay.
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