The darkness was deafening. He suffered the kind of sleeplessness that have one writhing in a bed, a cold one, with his mind always missing out on the the very spectre that tormented his soul. He was exhausted, and oh sleep can come easily, but no, no, no, the sleep was not satisfying, like withdrawal instead of a beachhead D-Day with Madam Ovari. Okay, maybe a little bit of *that* might help, but what you can do to yourself when alone, with everything you wanted for, constructed with deliberate precision of a machinist tool, for all to see, the bits of mortar made up of everything...everyone...for the statue of your life. Vanity trip, they call it, but it's really more like vanity hitchhike; hey brother can you take me to the spotlight, thank you very much and fuck you. Well, here I was, holding this solemn bra of my former lover, feverish, strung up like a piece of old string that has become brittle, waiting for the wreckage of our room to reassemble itself around me.