To north, south, east or west, turning at will, it was not long before his landmarks fled him. Gone was the outline of his mountainous home. Gone was that torn world of towers. Gone that grey lichen; gone the black ivy. Gone was the labyrinth that fed his dreams. Gone ritual, his marrow and bane. Gone boyhood. Gone…
He only knows that he has left behind him, on the far side of the skyline, something inordinate; something brutal; something tender; something half real; something half dream; half of his heart; half of himself.
And all the while the far hyena laughter.
Titus Alone, Mervyn Peake