Sometimes he sits and reads the book and hears its assurances of beauty. The beauty of cold, sheer things that never love you back. The people in this book treat their yearning for a place, for cliffs and rain, like medicine. Though, it never cures. And he finds, somehow, that he wants that.
Sometimes he reads the book while the wind beats at the window and he wonders, if he went out there, would he catch a glimpse of that glory? An affection for harshness that repays. Usually, he never goes out there.
Tonight, he went out, and the rain lashed his face and the gale deafened him by way of conversation. He hears these drops and blusters speaking about their friends in the book, and he hears them saying welcome.