The sun rose, slanted, fell over the windowsill and crept up the bed into Martin’s eyes. He awakened, his heart pounding. He stood up and finished the last of the wine.
“Internal application only!” he observed. Repeatedly the mirror drew him. “Poison if taken externally,” he continued amiably; then seeing the foolish expression on his face, turned away in disgust.
He looked at himself again.
“Emancipation!” he shouted. “To business! To weaving, undecipherable sex and even my own hot mouth!” In amazement he looked into the crypt of his eyes. That soft sound of weeping.... “From the ceiling,” he cried. “Not from these French fried lips!” He went back to bed.
In a dream he placed his hand on his hard body.
“The unborn,” he whispered, breaking his hand on himself. “Modest child of onanism.... One daughter who will not ride the world on her ruby-jeweled bird’s nest!... One lad who will not ride the world on a bird’s nest!”
He awoke and looked at the ceiling. The room was death. Outside, snow was falling, flakes padding the window. He stared into the darkness. To escape without struggle—his body falling—and then, rest—infinitely deep and sweet.... His imagination stretched steeply into awareness. Not into chaos or unreality. The wind pressed snow on the window, through the window and into his arms. He felt the cold. Holding his hands into the air, he prayed....
“God!”
No bright arm of light; no sound of wings. It was four in the morning and his terror had grown to a deadening satisfaction. The rose shadows of steepled city buildings at night rang dimly in his court, their inner warmth full of promise and engaging noise. He looked out of the window, and shook his head.
“Too young and stupid, my infantile prince,” he said, and touched the gooseflesh on his arm, kissing with faint disdain its embarrassed nubs. “Back to bed again to sleep and jump like a poisoned cat.” And another day waved her dreaming, blue hands, regretfully——