This was the problem. At least one thing would have to happen for there to be a story. And he would have to choose a line, not necessarily one that went straight through. You write a line, he thought, and then you have to get out from under it.
The philosophers wrote: the only beauty is beauty that falls. There is a moment, they say, when the will of art itself becomes suspended.
The father in his attic room is about to fall asleep. He's about to fall asleep over a book that he's been writing. If I believe in anything now (he wrote this in his book) it's that describing is a kind of leaving; that all my work is a kind of describing; that the live oak leaves were small and thick to prevent the live oak's scorching.
He wants to right his thinking. He wants to say what part of writing the trees are at their highest point was seeing at their highest point they made a purple edge. His bees don't know they're in a cage. The cat scratched his daughter's finger, and she used that finger to redden her lip. He only said what he saw. All the rooms were empty. All the houses were made of stone. The wind is so loud here you can see it.