But as it moves along in its self-identification with a farrago of phrases and sayings, the babble turns dense and multidimensional. The house of the rising sun is a drafty place, even though its windows are closed. The landscape is somber. Boundaries between the interior and exterior dissolve, heat flows outside and apple trees move indoors quite interactively. The tone shifts from everyday drabness to visionary melancholia, and now and again, the reader's finger gets pricked by a well-aimed humorous thorn.
Mercy walks with a steady stride, bowed, but alive.