The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

Father Grim, Old MP, tells the story of the time, when as executioner of mus musi, he lost count of the iron-wire spring traps he had placed in strategic locations around the house. Someways like the Spartan Threehundredhead, perhaps, missing that goat trail —

several weeks or moonmonths later, Grim is moving the ceiling tiles and discovers the preterite zogreion. Peering closer, he just makes out the thinly etched dark outline of some small thing, caught, like the flashbang silhouettes on the crumbling walls of Hiroshima —

While we awaken into life in medias res, and are actually created by a nine-month journey in a dark and gentle womb ocean, contrariwise, the endings of our books and our movies, cognizant of what is coming, move at breakneck speed, one step in front of the large Indiana Jonesian boulder and progeny, et al., that are chasing right behind  —

While plot thickens. to be true to the spirit of endings, tales will switch back and forth, this way and that,  touching at decay, decadence, planning great and vain rear actions by our heroes, temporary retreats as still unknown enemies come ever closer — not just plot should reflect these last efforts — language, narrative,  and pace should likewise break down, leading us (the gentle reader, the silent watcher) to yearn and fear for endings, fallings, no easy revelations — circuitous — first giants, then heroes, then mere mortals, crushing under the weight of all that’s come before —

Dripping, slipping, down the birth canal, the head gets stuck, and Doctor pops me out and lames my hand —
beginnings and endings —— what child ever wanted the womb to end, to be yanked screaming into a cold word where sparrows must feed themselves?