Any other night, any other day, Paul would defer the allegation of kind, of calm, even if only in his heart. They wouldn't be true, most of the time.

But in the heatwave shimmer of spice, Paul does feel kind. He feels a great, encompassing kindness, a gentle regard for the world and all the things that dwell in it. He feels it now most particularly for the iridescence-smearing carefulness of the person (person?) leaning over him, sheltering him from hard light and hard sound and Paul's own reckless choices.

"I want to be," Paul says, earnestly, as if volunteering an answer to an unasked question, "The way that you are. You're a giving place. Things grow for you."