Excuses, excuses. There is a marked reluctance to tell the tale. Idiot? yes, I suppose. It's rather selfconciously signifying nothing, speaking for itself, in its own terms, tip of the iceberg only. Oh, we're in for the glaciation features now. No, I won't take that up, let it stand, a terminal moraine. But I thought- terminal? In the sense of stopping paying attention to. Ah. The serpent eats its own tale. Linearity only one among many constructional functions. Wha? Tale I told you, walking shadows.

You said all this could be interpreted!

Lord ha'mercy! Wait- listen! He will answer! Answer! Wait! I waited patiently for the Lord, and he- listen!

Silence.

Thought, I confess, and word oh, yes, I suppose, but deed?

Heartily sorry remembrance grievous burden intolerable.

Silence.

Why, then, die.

Toby gets up off the bed and blows his nose. And wipes his streaming eyes. Stands listeneing a moment, puts his fingers in his ears and, pop! Listen... hissss ssilence. Nausea. He goes and leans on the washbasin. His face in the mirror.

Still!

Be still and know that I am God. Pfui! A smeller. Only human. Remembrance grievous burden erection. Well, I can cope with that. And then, that none of his nine openings be neglected, a copious, gobscouring spit in the sink. He turns away, because he does not hope, because (I can cope with that)

Because something must die. "The young who toy with the idea of suicide are at least aware that something must die." What's that from? "Their mistake is to confuse the killing of the body with the casting off of outgrown thoughts and feelings." He turns away because he has outgrown- what was that? A very great act of imagination...