the lightning must have stopped. dim light would beckon on the blight and selfish and all that hungers toward the trap to blind.
it is corrosive on recovery, as blind as you would ever be. dim light of the hour as if nothing but passing peeks. it comes as smithereens and crumbs of god.
you'd think he learned to stay down in a week and would seek again what there was from half the latitude. you'd think he'd learn—but everything is as important to him as a smiting hand to rouse consciousness.
