The Shop, weakened by dust, was closing its eyes. The saw
stopped like an ambulance. A breeze made of turpentine still
hung around his hands.
      Outside, the walls in the alley were gold leaf fluttering on
their frames; clouds, retired housepainters, relaxed in the sky.
      A little cello began to throb in his throat.
      Suddenly, he saw the sun overturn like a truckload of
oranges at the end of a street—its light scatter and roll through
the windows on a hill.
      What’s that got to do with Wittgenstein, or how we live?
voices shouted in head.
      Nothing…nothing at all.

1979