Not a shuddering of the earth, but a skyquake. Turner could have painted it, firmly lashed down. A single glove whirled past just now, many kilometers from its hand. I shall make my way along against the wind to that house on the other side of the field. I am flickering in the hurricane. I am being X-rayed, my skeleton is handing in its resignation. Panic grows while I cross, I founder, I founder and drown on dry land! What a burden it is, all I have to drag along suddenly, what a burden for the butterfly to take a barge in tow! Arrived at last. A final wrestling with the door. And inside now. Inside now. Behind the big pane of glass. What a strange and magnificent idea glass is---to be close without being struck...Outside a horde of transparent sprinters of gigantic shape is rushing by over the plateau of lava. But I no longer founder. I sit behind the glass. Still. My own portrait.