Three hours chain-smoking words and you move on. We stand in the porch, two archaic figures: a woman and a man. The old masters, the old sources, haven’t a clue what we’re about, shivering here in the half-dark 'sixties. Our minds hover in a famous impasse and cling together. Your hand grips mine like a railing on an icy night. The wall of the house is bleeding. Firethorn! The moon, cracked every-which-way, pushes steadily on.