"He wondered if she was right to reproach him his lack of..." p.1(&2)
library book musk fermentation. He and she
parasites, book-leeches feeding on the wet
mould of wait.
He kept slipping on the rock-moss,
falling out of waiting but not into forgetting.
In truth, his silence was a shameful oNe;
he had been gathering strength to speak against
the conductor, Maurice. The longer they stayed
in the room, the less logical the straight line
of time appeared to him. Walking along
the breakwater at sundown, he wanted much
more to slip on the moss than ever. He felt it
an anachronistic deliverance, a way of proving
Maurice wrong. He had over-simplified of course,
from staring too long at the straight-lined horizon...
