be completely demolished. But why should he? Now, that the searchlight which Blake had turned on the world was off.
Then he remembered, as if he had heard them all before, the dirges in the night, and the sound of his own wailing. He remembered trying before … trying … He clutched at his trousers. He would try again, but the tragedy that cluttered his mind roared steadily on. He closed his eyes hard. It was as blind and useless an action as he had ever known.
The far, faint bark of invisible hounds aroused him and he thought of a poor helpless animal running for its life, running from jaws that could so easily destroy it. He had been running all his life. A mist crossed his eyes, and his throat felt dry as he tried to swallow. He wished he would choke. Choking had smote many with death, and love's end had smote all with a desire for it. He beheld a world that no youth ought to see, a world of grey skies, buildings and lawns. Death had fixed ghostlike on this scene and sucked it bloodless. But it wasn't devoid of relevance for him. Clouds beat around in a beautiful tide, and he wondered how much iodine it would take for him to become a part of this.
Yes, all things were restful in this dawn. But the happiest of all was himself, a beautiful young man, almost transparent in a thin garment of shining gauze, riding on a star. Somewhere before … he had ridden on a star …
Again he heard the wail of the hound. It seemed close and he imagined himself caught in quicksand, sinking in slime He reached up and caught a golden branch … Instantly, the branch became a bronze arm. It circled his mudded form. He could hear his own cries, feeble, as from a great distance. This was no dream. He was being violently squeezed and a warm breath was on his lips … It spoke … and the car came to a halt.
"Gay …" it cried tightening its arms. "I can't hate you … don't you know I love you?"
The mythical words … those long awaited mythical words … He went on holding his breath. Affection, pity, and plain hunger for this passionate creature he had known so long broke to the surface of Gaylord's life. He was tired of living with ghosts, no matter how beautiful, weary of loyalties that no longer sustained the weight of
