Descended the stairs. He had plans. He wasn’t thinking at all about his creator. He was thinking about shaving, how he wished it didn’t take so long. He had plans. The small things got in the way. The cup of tea and the morning Times got in the way. The baffled eurhythmia of his heart got in the way. The incontestable, folded napkins of his brain got in the way. Memories of a violin lessons; scratched windows layered with ice; a stray dog; corner druggist with a birth mark; cold hands of a lover; odors of a fountain; nostalgia for a boyhood horse; electrolysis of the eucharist–bread and flesh and blood to wash it down and down into the foaming guts of a skittish boy; half moon reflected in spectacles; card games in polite society; these got in the way. Meantime his small, girlish feet found each step of the stairs; he held his razor. He was unaware of his creator. The blind watchmaker who, leaning close to the page knows time is simply music and the pale, diurnal city is entirely fiction.