Rabbit, Run

The ball, rocketing off the crotch of the

evenly. Goodness lies inside, there is nothing outside, those things he was trying to balance have no weight. He feels his inside as very real suddenly, a pure blank space in the middle of a dense net.

The fullness ends when we give Nature her ransom, when we make children for her. Then she is through with us, and we become, first inside, and then outside, junk. Flower stalks.

She hates them, all those clinging quaint quavering widows and Young People for Christ – the one good thing if the Russians take over is they'll make religion go extinct.

Her accepting his watching her flatters him, shelters him.