Chapter Five
Konrad sat under a tree.
He had spent some little time attempting to determine — or to remember — what kind of tree it was. He did not know how long. Once, it had been possible to count time into little pieces and watch each one pass, the way he did now with a fall of the tree’s leaves. One — two — three — leaves went floating away upon the dry air, cast up one after another, and let fly. He had measured time that way, once, seconds drifting past one after another, turning into minutes and hours and dying away.
The tree. The tree was everything and nothing. Old, for its trunk and branches twisted and turned like logic, like supposed facts in a thorny case, convoluted and fathomless. Young, for the leaves — those airy, drifting leaves — were fresh and bright and vivid, thoug
