The deeply-grained, wood-paneled walls reach, from floor to ceiling, twelve feet. Choosing the correct materials for both aesthetic appeal and practicality was no mean endeavor, but all who come to visit admire what my able workmen have accomplished. And this is but one of dozens of rooms gracing the home of dreams -- years in the planning, still more in the building. Pride, attainment, satifaction: these words describe the high level of purpose and self-fulfillment I had come to realize.
. . . had come to realize. . . .
How is it that a man reaches the acme of a long-pursued and chosen dream and then, from the dark left field of his mind, senses that all he has amassed becomes the taste of ashes in his mouth? For years my mind and heart was on nothing but building this house -- this monument -- on land left me by Grandfather. A view of the sea is afforded on all sides but one of my sprawling Manderlay; its roots sink deeply into solid rock on a tongue of land that reaches toward and stops steeply at the sea.
It is perfect.
I stare vacantly at my richly-hued mahogany walls, wondering why they are closing . . . closing in on me. . . .
