Chapter 7

           Nightafternight,summerandwinter,thetormentofstorms,thearrow-likestillnessoffine(hadtherebeenanyonetolisten)fromtheupperroomsoftheemptyhouseonlygiganticchaosstreakedwithlightningcouldhavebeenheardtumblingandtossing,asthewindsandwavesdisportedthemselvesliketheamorphousbulksofleviathanswhosebrowsarepiercedbynolightofreason,andmountedoneontopofanother,andlungedandplungedinthedarknessorthedaylight(fornightandday,monthandyearranshapelesslytogether)inidiotgames,untilitseemedasiftheuniversewerebattlingandtumbling,inbruteconfusionandwantonlustaimlesslybyitself.

           Inspringthegardenurns,casuallyfilledwithwind-blownplants,weregayasever.Violetscameanddaffodils.Butthestillnessandthebrightnessofthedaywereasstrangeasthechaosandtumultofnight,withthetreesstandingthere,andtheflowersstandingthere,lookingbeforethem,lookingup,yetbeholdingnothing,eyeless,andsoterrible.

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