Every morning he wakes up thinking how to account for all the down-lunging sons and their networks cut into quarters, sons who go shouting, scorched by diseases, charmed by dithering and detached allegories, sons who set sail to preach such lies fond as holy vipers freed from flesh but more like ruined and horrible. He grapples with his mind’s admonishments to go trafficking in concrete Buddha statues and extol sutras on fire. He wants to beam into his birth toys and broken illustrations wrapt in a final filial infirmity out of sorts. No sorts left and them feeble gems, they do depart, like his gods promised, saying: this search is too unprotected, so reach for that which hovers in emaciated memory in thou forever. Believe not in whips and adorned loopholes for vehicles of motherless nature. Then he gets up and goes on.