No more do I burn.
No more for us the fluttering of wings
That whirred in the air above us.
Lo the fair dead!
“Small wonder, then, that he took to inventing stories in which time had a geography, like an island, place moved like the hands of a clock, and point of view was a kind of punctuation. He assigned numbers and symbols to death, love, characters, unexpected developments, transitions, then submitted them to the rhythms of numerologies.”
Robert Coover