He thought he might decide to become lost in the raiment of flowers.
He thought, if I were a flower intent on viewing the field I too would have such a trusting face.
He thought, why not stand in the lookout tower, and look out over the lake for evidence. Of a crime, of a god, of the conflagration of gulls, those flicks of gray smudge and white fire. Or why climb. Why not rest here in the afternoon of crickets and shadow.