Resting places. Where, for god's sake, were there resting places? He hardly knew them, their features dissolved as he looked; yet he knew they were no more at home than he was. There was hair and nose and napkin cloth and painted trim along the stair. He peered through his eyes at the other boys at play, afraid of the cool glass, his incomplete reflection like a boogie watching, or like God, transparent, evanescent, here and there. Good the skull held the head in, the caged chest in safety. He was master of the resting places. How? Where? These pacing cats, these bears, these songless singing birds, these slaty cases. . If the soul has a body for its grave, graves are no resting places. I am afloat in here. The panes are smeared; there's steam in the air and the litter of voices. They do not touch me. The world cranked by his window. Cinders flew and flags of smoke; the grass was gray; the sun seemed large and orange though it was morning; he bobbed lightly in his jar and the shadow of his hand descended on the lap of the thick young lady sitting next to him. There it fluttered gently despite its passion, scratching the smooth cloth of her skirt where a stripe like one upon a peppermint began describing the ample spread of her thighs — thighs which widened beneath her weight, he felt, like puddles of honey. He was sure she'd seen his ghost alight and felt its brushing. With inflated cheeks, wool hair, sewn eyes, she seemed as tranquil as a dove, as pink and plump and smooth besides. Furber flexed his fingers. The head of a rabbit fell asunder. Her eyes were warming, weren't they? Had he seen a slackness in her lips just then? her breathing quicken? Cornering, he watched her chest lift slowly while his hand paled out at her waist. Agony. He began again at the knee… thumb, forefinger at a wrinkle, delicately pinched together. There was a storm inside him, gusts of desire, intervals of weakness, rain… his hand flew off, then reappeared. . again… He watched it anxiously, each time willing it under until he felt it sink to her skin. A sigh escaped him. Pretty pudcums. She stirred; her legs moved lightly under his fingertips, down tickling, and his undulating flower bird settled in the hollow of her lap. Pet my bunny. Eee, sweet fig. His back was aching. He had brought her to the limit of her nature; he was showing her unventured seas beyond; she wiped her brow with her arm. Seecreeshun — oh my lovey-dolly. His fingers startled, then burrowed toward her privacy. The train lurched and as it whistled she rose clumsily, bumping his leg. His hand fell from the window, ah… he squeezed himself, weary. The girl edged up the aisle, hatbox rocking, her buttocks fastened moistly to her dress. A whore at heart for all she is a cow, Furber thought, and as the sun turned he tried to throw his outline under the wheels of the train, but when he peered out all he saw were the shadows of the cars and in them gray oblongs of window, irregularly splotched. Thus the china smutched the cloth. His own plate had escaped him and was passing wildly now from hand to hand. Master of the resting places. Hadn't he this blackened clothing? hadn't he by heart the words for setting out? God cast His shadow over him; he was divine in his darkness; somewhat, like these villagers, an ardent agriculturalist, a specialist in earth. That paten douse could have saved me? Why not? Put your hand here, reverend, just while we travel, she could have said, and take your rest. Wrong? Aunt Janet had succeeded where he'd failed. It was only luck his image would not leave him. Rest? Peace? There? He'd be a cutout creased by the brilliant rails, cinders would pucker his chest. But she bumped me most unkindly; waddled off. He shuddered; heard the silver clatter. Careful. Care oh care. To sink down rest. Duckie. To touch. These faces all in tatters, words passing, glasses clinking, steam and condensation… He drew a line on his goblet. Dewy, cool, a drop hung from the tip. There was no law unproclaiming it. End to his lip then. Off hand. The taste of life. Proof of the labor in the glass. Sad testimonial to love.