He felt his consciousness streaming. How dry the old spout, when he needed it most (as when yearning to produce a prose composition), but now it generously spluttered and gushed as if from an unseen and fathomless source. He could dip his hand into the dazzling flow and pull out such bounties as 'unseen and fathomless source'. And the whole word -- that is, pavement beneath him, undergrowth on either side, and early evening above -- was carried away by this liquid element, buoyed and tossed in startling animation. A thousand images, fit for a hundred prose compositions! He had a duty (a sacred duty?) to transfer the sensations, so vivid and rare, to the page for all to share in, like a landowner smiling the head of his table while his stewards and serfs stared with wide-eyed gratitude at the sizzling, sumptuous--- At that moment, two men, who had been hiding in undergrowth, fell upon him, and brained him with their cudgels. He made a sound like 'Guh', and then he stopped twitching for good.