Pivot: transfer of affect

Pobrecito he breathed out as he lay dying. As I lay dying he thought. Not Faulkner he thought that's too clear a reference. Let's pin up a false wall so that I can roll my body behind it, he said out loud but there was no one. He had been stabbed. A stab and run. Some Greek trick. If only, he thought, if only someone would arrive. The tunnels were empty, and motherless. These tunnels led to Europe, led to Algiers, led to Moscow in 1989, led to a cavern of heliographic birds, led to a shapeless mass, led to a fanatical ascetic, led to all the seas and all the faces and all the right moments that all at once felt like an adrenal body begging to be released into use again.