All the sounds a scared man hears — what are they in the dark but the footsteps of many gods across a kind of inner floor. Yes, the tympani tapped in the mighty anthem, the patter of rain on a dry roof. These are impossible pauses in the beating between hearts. He who listens gathers in a long skein of veins long ago woven into monstrous patterns for the agony of gods. That is when, at the centre, small bloods may jump out and demand critters. But it is no good. Fear with his huge sponginess persists and absorbs. Nothing will put him out of the body, for he is a wise tenant warning you of accidents. He bloats you out, distorts your face in a tormented whisper, reveals to all the world the sickliest whitest part of your soul. But that is how it is — Him on his high throne with the crown of tears and everywhere like the dancing steps of majestic horses — those sounds.