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On the other hand, the left leg seems to be itching with mineral groupings. A large area of his back still has superimposed images of rooms at twilight. Blocked, he doesn’t push it, he waits. This first contact seems just too rich, obscure... Late in the evening he arrives at the door to the library. He goes in (but not by the door, through the wall, rather, through one of the books on the highest shelf, whose title or author he cannot make out now that he has reached the ground.) But what he notices first is a silent storm in a garden he has never seen, outside the open window - without the storm at all affecting the inside of the room. Wind, lightning, rain, torn foliage, twisted branches, it’s all there. Good, he says, that’ll clear the air.
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