He ran his hands across the wall at his back, envisaging the sandstone beneath his touch, trying to determine which pock mark was from weather, and which from the swing of a pick. There was a solidity to sandstone, but also a natural ruggedness. In his mind’s eye, he compared the finished product to granite and to marble. Rugged naturalness was more Willard’s style. He snuggled within his jacket.
He went off in his head readily nowadays. Attention was no longer his to give.
A wry smile flickered across his face. The crickets in his head emitted their high-pitched drone endlessly. Willard heard them most when he was trying to think, or sleep. They disturbed his equilibrium. He often could not think straight. It was disconcerting, but mostly it was tiring. He was finding more and more things were tiring. Willard was tiring.
But he was not ready to sleep.