The very essence of dreams . . . he was it?
Through my glasses I saw next year, a mere
futility. Whirl of black feathers, queer
trunks, the devil of a street. Bit
by bit, through my glasses I saw clearly.
I saw how carefully I went from post
to post with my glass, how I put my most
to the left of us. This one, he
could work with adequate tools, but a bold
capacity for fidelity? No.
I had to wait days and days for him to go
“eh?” Enough then. He gave me a cold
and monumental whiteness. Nothing more.
An, an, an exceptional man. A connoisseur.
Text: Conrad, Heart of Darkness
end-user: Greg Fraser
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