All day it trailed me, though without analogy–the name wasn’t like a wolf or a policeman, more like a pitted stone but even so this was no good. The goal of emptiness was evasive, less of natural fact, less of forest flowers, less of Orion, less. Do you know what I mean? That someone, something might reveal itself. Late in the day the lead weight that makes the clock run dropped without warning, my cold, private Emily Dickinson.
Planet of the Blind 