The wet black road twisted and flowed before him, a rippling black
river, glittering in the bouncing headlights of his car. He could hear
the roaring shout of the awesome summer storm; lightning sprang
back from the gushing windshield, glared in blue-white mirrors on the
pavement. Water scrambled on the roof of the car; thunder made the
whole vehicle shudder. He could feel the explosions in his very teeth,
against the top of his head. Occasionally, as his car rushed in lunatic
flight towards destruction, the lights flared on twisting trees, on
marching steel rods of rain. The windshield wipers squealed shrilly:
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Wind bawled against the shut windows.
But he was running, running away from his tranquil maniac life,
his sweet life, his serene and terrible life, his secure and fulfilled and
unbearable life, his life which was now a huge and untenable sickness
in him, an agony too murderous to be borne even for another hour.
His head rang with the groans and screams of his own pain which
seemed to blast up from his very viscera, all clamoring for death, for
surcease, for escape into nothingness, for an end-and sleep, and silent
etemiq~ without tho~ght or memory.
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