Darby was a square-faced man. You've seen the kind, cheek-bones wide, stretched outward with the square jaw; and the nose, more alkaline than not, put right into the center of the face, like a parrot. He was lying on his back, looking up towards the moon, one might say, in a painful way, at the wrong time. Watching the past and forgoing the future in a death drift. Things are not clear at night, Darby was repressed, bottled-up, sinking into a dream state, and out, seeing things in the near dark, if indeed they were things or dreams, which one he couldn't tell. Was it last night or this night, he was dreaming, and was he seeing what he was seeing, or dreaming what he was seeing? In either case, obscure. At the end of the dream, or obscure sight-it was as if he was on stage then off stage, it all was a guess of course. It all was overhang, an extension of something, the dream, the obscureness. His mind was telling him in several different voices, this and that, as if crisscrossing the same spot, with different plots and themes, in different ways...



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