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The distant almost-constant thunder, the dim flickerings of light dancing like fucking UFOs on the horizon in that bizarre almost-multicolour lightning sometimes manages at the edge of your eyes and the sky goad him on. On down the road, and on down into this doubt. The storm is the storm, and who are you, boy? How are you going to fight it? What will you do for him, when this thing wants him for its vessel, when he's been cracked open, waiting for this night, waiting for this slip in vigilance, for years? I don't know-yet! But I will think of something!