It was not my voice that cried out in the night in fear of things known, which I, forsooth, did not and could not know.

The same with my childish angers, my loves, and my laughters.

Other voices screamed through my voice, the voices of men and women aforetime, of all shadowy hosts of progenitors.

And the snarl of my anger was blended with the snarls of beasts more ancient than the mountains, and the vocal madness of my child hysteria, with all the red of its wrath, was chorded with the insensate, stupid cries of beasts pre-Adamic and progeologic in time.
And there the secret is out.

The red wrath! It has undone me in this, my present life.