…and there he was, thoroughly mobbed by rust and moldy wood, sopping in the lashes of last night’s rain. There was nothing human left to him, nothing but the colors of his greenness, the scarlet dye of his soul. The solely idea to be seen was hurting his groin, was chewing up his liver like a murrain. Somehow, there was nothing organic in his pain, it never is. The pain is only the creation of the mind. The death, the fear, the monsters of appearance, the vanity, the zestfulness of beauty. There is nothing organic in the pain.