Explore "The Lake of Wine" by Bernard Capes on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
A dream, a memory of a wire factory he had once been shown over -- this to re-connect him with a world he had sunk fathom-deep from; a buzzing and whistling in his brain, from which the brassy filament was being whirled to spin round a great reel at which some shadowy horror toiled; a snapping of the attenuated strand -- and Mr. Tuke came to consciousness with a shock.
Even then, at first, he could not disassociate himself from the business of his quickening stupor; but saw the criss-cross of wires on all his drowsy eyes looked at. Somewhere in his forehead was the hole the screaming thread had issued from. He put up his hand vaguely to feel the acrid wound he knew must be there; for his whole skull yet throbbed and ached from the jarring process. He groped for the fancied mark, curiously, and then with a sense of grievance. If it had closed already, the torture would go on in his brain and find no outlet.