sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep
blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback
chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to
clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes.
A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their--blind bodies, the
panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from
the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My
soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the
path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting
flood.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get
back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the
sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant
in a grike.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the
gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. UN COCHE ENSABLE Louis Veuillot called
Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted
here. And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats.
Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the
past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the
bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my
steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman.

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand.
Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be
master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther
away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The
two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see