THE boy Argus, who is nineteen, with palette colors in the carriers of his fingers, turns back to the house as if to make a last precautionary round before a journey. Instead he has decided to stay. He leaves his belongings in the debris of the hall. A cat from the end of the hall peers and they exchange reserves across silence heavy but for a hum, compoundly powerful and accustomed, like a thousand cats purring, or as a tornado may sound to those it has left behind, with implication eternal, both retrospective and ominous; from the core of which pierces a steady tapping of his father\u27s typewriter. The boy starts to go through the rooms when something rises Ind catches in his throat, a cough or a cry, unclasping time that rolls out before him. \u27How did it begin? By what way have I come?\u2
