Wind and persecution, thinks Edgar, are the only constants, and if he doesn’t face them now with a firm understanding of himself then he will only have to outface them later and expose more than he wants to. Trouble is, he doesn’t know who he is, or how to be it, so he strips himself bare of any identifying features by which he may be apprehended, and hides behind Poor Tom, screaming into the wind. His presented nakedness and mortified bare arms only let him feel cold for a short while before that feeling is replaced with a blazing loss of sensation all through his limbs and core.