when I pulled the cord on the pinkish purple lamp with the acorn finial and then smartly turned the corner from the bedroom into the living room,
the yard beyond the plate glass window was blurred as if a thick fog had come. But when I hurried to the door and my eyes adjusted to the dark, there was no fog. But I still felt the thrill of fog. My eyes still had the pleasure of hunting between the trunks of trees for a type of air. Most exquisite of all, my head did not belong to me.
It hung round and spinning in the doorway, handmade like a wind chime or a larded omen, an integral part of the stark, rural scene.