INSIDE THE THROBBING HEAD

Inside the throbbing head, machinery worked overtime, gears rotating and shafts cranking and everything bathed in sweat and firelight, as if it was some Dickensian workhouse factory in the middle of Marrakesh in a basement boiler room. Where would relief come from? When would it end? Before these things could be contemplated to their ghastly conclusion, a gust of the coolest most Arctic air blew through the place. It froze the gears in their tracks, it extinguished the fire, and suddenly all was still and peaceful and cool.