2
Another day came in on the sails, and once again he had to find himself something to do; he had built a self-disciplined life, and it was holding course, moving ahead, so now it simply sailed up and gazed reproachfully at him with its anchor eyes.
N. sat himself down to write. He fancied writing a fairy-tale, for the child inside him. A notebook turned up on the shelf. It had absorbed the yellow of the evening sun slung low under the ceiling, 40 watts strong. Turning to a clean page, he wrote the words: “The Kingdom of Starry Eyes.” And he was immediately transported there.
In the Kingdom of Starry Eyes, the Wind counted flowers every evening. If they were few, the Wind grew angry and snatched the hats of the passers-by one by one. So the passers-by grew angry, too, though they couldn
