It's OK to feel bad, I say to him. Really it's OK.
But it isn't OK and he'll probably realize this later. He's probably already there.
Perhaps it has something to do with the perpetual climbing he's doing, towards a language without words, being one of music, being one of continual street lights.
Perhaps it has something to do with the never-ending stress that comes along with being able to read people well enough to see their guts before they turn into offal.
Perhaps it has something to do with the cycle of days, makes us lazy and forget what it is to change rather than revolving around ourselves in framed ruddy circles.
A snail begins its slow ascent up Mount Como, has not yet made such a long journey but is determined as coal is determined to cut everything and anything into cubits. A treasure, the snail computes the preview of the mountain. It is less than picturesque. Few things are. Meaning, the picturesque is not to be sought after any more than a married man seeks after new tender prey. Perhaps the snail is a little flat for this. We'd better stop the story here.
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