He was simply starting to stress over this when he looked up and looked straight into the sun. It was not the sun he reviewed from his childhood, not that warm, stunning brilliant white consume. It was bigger, a lot bigger. Tremendous. A distorted yellow round with a purplish crown and a surface mottled with brilliant whorls and bubbles of ghastly fire. Thus he didn’t at first perceive what he was seeing, however rather thought how comparative it was, this abnormal circle, to the moon that he had envisioned the killer had seen on the turret. Even in the wake of acknowledging it should be the sun, that the green samples were, surely, pine limbs, that the blue roof was the sky, and that he was encircled not by stone dividers but rather by slopes and cool air and light… and still, at the end of the day he didn’t credit his detects. Daylight would consume him, darken his bones. And afterward he figured it should be killing him at that exact second, that he should not be feeling the orderly aggravation. Maybe his faculties had been singed away, maybe he was past all inclination. He started to shake. Hot pee sprayed down his thigh. It appeared he was falling toward the sun, or, more than likely it was becoming bigger yet. The flares of its squirming crown loosening up to entrap him, air pockets of blazing plasma protruding toward him and blasting as from the outside of a disgusting, liquid soup. He let out a cry and attempted to tunnel into the earth, uncovering blocks and patterns of grass. Breath cried in his throat. He smashed his head at the ground, needing to player his way into the dark earth. At the point when this fizzled, he turned onto his back and gazed about in degraded loathsomeness at the scene. He was lying on a tufted hill exactly ten feet from the palace divider, around fifty feet under a vast opening—clearly the end of the line down which he had slid; in many spots the mortar had dissolved from between the stone squares so the aggregate of the divider was planned with breaks and crevices, causing it to create the impression that the design was very nearly disintegrating. To one side, the slope—positioned with diminutive pines—fell away strongly into a valley. Pine branches overhung where he lay, and at whatever point the breeze squeezed them down, maybe complicated green paws were grabbing, attempting to scoop him up. Something little and dark was revolving around the profundities of the sky, shifting to and fro on flows of wind, loaning viewpoint to his view. The palace divider went up and up, a mile or a greater amount of dark ruin, and the sun, an insidious emission burst through from the opposite side of the sky, was pushing nearer, and the forest murmured with wind, stuttering the toxic privileged insights of the day, and that moronic winged thing was thoughtlessly orbiting and surrounding, and claws of pale cloud were uncurling, fraying into gibberish script, and the pines, shaking their beefy tops like green monsters just rose up out of a waterway, were endeavoring to evacuate themselves and reel forward in an assault. There was an excess of light, a lot of development, a lot of everything. The bounty of sights and sounds confused Beheim, aroused a fire in his brain that he was unable to stifle. Every one of the recognizable developments of his idea and assumption were consuming, falling to pieces, tumbling in showers of sparkles down into a disarray of light, and incapable to reestablish an interior request through reason, disregarding the agony in his legs, he jumped to his feet and ran, covering his head with his hands. He ran without respect for bearing, essentially shooting, imploring that he may coincidentally find some kind dimness, an opening, a tomb, a cavern. He shot in among the pines, staying away from patches of daylight as though they were pools of yellow toxin. However, as he arranged a lofty debase lined by an outcropping of rocks, he slipped on the floor covering of needles and went rambling, ending up folded on his side, gasping, and again looking straightforwardly into the sun. Weariness made him insightful. He was not passing on, not consuming. Some way or another a marvel had happened, and he had lived. There was no reason for running any farther. However he was unable to defeat his dread of the bubbling, raging thing overhead, nor could he stanch his anxiety with the world uncovered in its light. For a significant length of time he lay stuck by a light emission, expecting at any second to be burned. At long last he drew up his knees, folded his arms over them, and with his back against one of the rocks, he sat slouched and hopeless, harrowed by the warm sun that fingered his scalp and shoulders. He looked inside himself for a repository of solidarity, something that would support him and license him to think, to dissect, to figure out this plainly ungraspable circumstance. What might have ended up causing this? What had he done—for sure had been done to him—to so annul the laws of his being? What’s more, he pondered also how—in spite of the hours he had consumed recollecting the time on earth of a day, regardless of the impact of his wistfulness — how he might at any point have yearned to encounter the sun once more. It should be, he settled, an amiable sickness of the eye that permitted people to respect the thing without whitening.