from XXXI. Tango

“Panic jumped down on Geryon at three a.m. He stood at the window of his hotel room. Empty street below gave back nothing of itself.
Cars nested along the curb in their shadows buildings leaned back out of the street. Little rackety wind went by.
Moon gone. Sky shut. Night had delved deep. somewhere (he thought) beneath this strip of sleeping pavement
the enormous solid globe is spinning on its way–pistons thumping, lava pouring from shelf to shelf,
evidence and time lignifying into their traces. At what point does one say of a man that he has become unreal?”

Autobiography of Red, Anne Carson

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