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The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the bare and blackened trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings. Eyes closed, arms oaring. Something nameless in the night, lode or matrix. To which he and the stars were common satellite.. the great pendulum in its rotunda scribing through the long day movements of the universe of which you may say it knows nothing and yet know it must.

The Road: Cormac McCarthy (p. 10)

Image source: Life (David Attenborough)