I suspect that truth is inconsequential. S. pauses, having heard this thought spoken for the first time. He marvels at the transformation his attention survived as it was articulated, now only waiting the brutality of interpretation. Language is a peculiar sculptor, he thinks flatly. However, he argues with himself expression is not sound or stone.
Light is fickle.
Inanimately, S. turns to the window unaware of his prolonged stare, unaware of his desire. Alone, he ventures through the window to be among the trees, to sing with the late-autumn, afternoon wind.