He raised the expectations. They delayed. Seeing the past starve, fingering the thick panes of the orangery for green gone Out Of them, he raised a level inside himself, an animal of plumage and perfect void. Love is not the pane streaming. The orangery is not an index. I heard a gate and then a footfall, and light tore at a shadow's face. Love is not the rain that comes uncalled. I delayed, and now I must haul away the side of the house, where it is withered.