A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things. He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions. His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
A life baptized in no-life for a while, And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby. Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods. Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good. His head is a little interior of grey mirrors. Each gesture flees immediately down an alley Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance Drains like water out the hole at the far end.