Before he knows it, it's Easter's again so he can move back into the front room. He sits in the cool basement and watches the bottom halves of people moving past his open window, working at his task while thousands of feet rock past, dangling hands, elbows—blind and naked—unsleeved, or sticking out of sweaters with the sleeves pushed up. Maybe he even reaches further this time.
But it's never far enough, is it? He concentrates. He is pure energy suspended in microspaces more numerous than those in the Vast Whatever—He becomes nothing more than a binary condition—stability and restlessness, reaching further while a man in a baseball cap pushes a toy poodle in a wheelchair past his window. He reaches further and suddenly breaks free, everything crashes inside his head to a searing note at the back of his throat—the man with the poodle poised at the edge of life behind his eyes.
