I picture him on a ranch seeing, but not recognizing, his own land. I suspect that the walk across the desert floor from the house to the stables is like walking on the moon. Memory is without gravity now.
Every day is space travel.
Perhaps he acts out scenes from his life. He squeezes cookie dough onto a pan. Soon he is circulating among his celebrated guests, offering cookies which they accept, chew and swallow. Pity the man who has handed uncooked dough to heads of state. I heard this story at a party filled with academes and artists.