He was the doctor who had lost his patient although the symptoms of an immortal illness remained like the colors flushing through the clouds which had lost their colors, pulsings, breathings, tremblings, pinions of fluted light like the sweepings of the arms of the great semaphores, the nebulae burning like pale fires under snow banks or burning like the eyes of birds, burning like vanished station lights, the lights upon the waves where only the darkness should be, and he was the lawyer who had lost his client and who had forgotten the subject of his litigations, this old lawyer of marine properties under the chartless waters of a dream extending, receding, this old lawyer carrying a briefcase with a broken padlock, wills and testaments accompanying him like a consort as he wove from shore to shore, his papers whispering, this old lawyer with his rustling papers and papers stuffed into his alderman's hat and music written upon his shirt front where the lights of the surf dashed like the lights of a city and music upon his mantle reflecting suns and moons and stars forever in transit by the scalloped tide -- an astronomer far away or even one quite near might mistake him for a firmament of undiscovered galaxies or hear their twitterings --music breaking at his feet--lawyer for a dolphin and a rose, no doubt, lawyer for a starfish, lawyer for a snowflake, lawyer walking by a sea streaked with silver and green and golden lights which had filtered through many clouds or mottled like the pigeon's breast, lawyer for a passenger pigeon gleaming through mists and fogs as he gleamed, glittered, faded, the fireflies shining through him, lawyer for a centaur sleeping upon the rock, lawyer for a dead coachman with his wheel turning through the surf and lawyer for an old surrey under whose top a passenger slept like a pearl inside a shell, lawyer for the moon in the cloud, and was this old postman going rounds through all inclemencies of time and tide and weather's chameleon shiftings and many colored ties or tides of darkness, this old postman knocking on the door of every house, and he was this old lighthouse keep whose lighthouse was built beyond the porches of the brain beyond the whisper of the somnolent tide oh the cries of tides awakening, beyond the ebb and flow of consciousness, that which should know the difference between one love and another love, one shore and another shore, and he was the musician who had struck two chords together with one motion of his dead, jeweled hand with its long fingers reaching like light beams, chord which was ever of the silence flowing under the sound of accidental or incidental music, music informed by the silence as lights lowered, as doors fell unhinged from the heavens and waters murmured like the voices of the dead, like choirs of silences and many silent strings and many phantom flutes and horns as the dead star glittered for one moment before it disappeared--for this was the spectre dreaming upon the spectre, and only he was real. And all else was illusion. And thus there was no end but that which had transpired before the end--the withering of the flower before the blossoming of the flower--the falling of the snow before the falling of the snow--the wind blowing upon the towers and porches before the wind had ever blown--the song ending before the song began--the flame going out before it had ever burned--for everything had happened before--and there were many moony vales and shadows inside the unknown dimensions of the human heart, places where all contrairities were equal, times when bells rang under water, even death was robbed of the solitary moment of its power, its dimensionless music.
www.torforgeblog.com
Several shifts in writing style throughout depending on who's story is being told, and by whom. It does get kind of 'matryoshka'-esque with stories being told within stories, but wasn't hard to follow at all. Normally interludes with backstory/whatever kind of annoy me because they feel like filler, but 'First Binding' made them feel relevant and purposeful enough that I enjoyed them as much (if not more) than the main story. Which is kind of the point anyway.... 
