Zora Neale Hurston Writing Style

So Jebediah started to tussle with the idea of Rage. Rage, that awkward stranger with a fiery demeanor whose tyrannical actions lay just beneath the surface of concious thought. The wicked one who dwelled in the back of the mind who occasionally reared his head to watch. What steps could be taken to restrain such a hideous site? He sits hunched, hungry for havoc and hellfire to break loose as he waits in his eternal abyss. He waits and watches silently through out the day, his long teeth and claws waiting to strike at a moments notice. His presence unknown his reasons forlorn and his form unknown to the social norm. He was vulnerable to the monster now. He was frightened and powerless. Poor Jebediah! He was alone now, the demons dancing around him. People who tried to reason were sent away. Experts were dumbstruck and holy men were lost, they had never witnessed a site such as this. He would be fine once time had cooled the mind. He would be back to his former self. That was what he thought. But they all knew the ugly truth. And if there was doubt, the next day would erase all confusion, people gathered around the depressing gray building. People who dared not move closer slowly moved in. They waited silently around the building. Denial, the vast hand, had grasped everyone.