Where would he go if he fell into them, like a whirlpool or a washing machine? They were blue and green. Castles he had called them. Cloisters. The caverns, the rods, the cones, he imagines water, he imagines a chasm. Streak clouds over mountains. He did not want to leave.
  At last, "Barry?" she said.
  All he can say is "Next time" as his eyes sank into the grey plaid.