His fingers frolicked—not scraping, grinding ’gain ’gainst gravel, frost, but free—grasping, clasping, locking a purchase by which were four limbs propelled—this time with no doubt, no: no spectre thought so high! And rustling, tightening, the hairs… Why, ’was but sudden, inspired locomotion!

When the grasp came, then—came past skin, ’twixt heart and lungs, esophagus—such was it that underneath he scampered, scattered, scrambled the day down whole. But ’twas not so far gone, no, not as yet, and, churning beneath, and pulsing above, moved more imminent victories. One day. One day.