The boy in the man's home. His mind regarding the night. Regarding the arrangement of things. The man amidst the things he collected. Their significance and his means of acquiring them a matter subordinate to the particulars of this man's life that was unfurled upon the surface of the world little more than arbitrarily. Time relegating the events of the man's life to history like stale food like the dust to the boy. He stood by the window and listened to the night-time sounds. The dogs in their paddock and the things he couldn't see or hear but whose presence did not escape his concept of the world. The things inside somehow more dead to the boy than things outside. One day the boy brought a butterfly into the home and in the flashes of its white wings could be seen a sort of grace that could not be found in the things on the shelf or on the table that distinguished. The butterfly and its insect-panic in the corner of the ceiling. The boy looking out the window. The man regarding it all with his back to it and knowing what it meant. The boy regarding the man.