He wakes up. Hell. He showers. Anti-Hell. He watches with terror as a technology guru descibes the outline of the future world run by technologists and distanced even further than now from the ideas of direct democracy and freedom of individuals. What of these dreams other than that they are dreams, he wonders. He has no answers. He eats some toast with marmite on it and some toast with blueberry jam on it. He walks as in a dream towards the bus and the dead deer has been cleared away. Perhaps it was scooped up and even now is being chewed on by the hungry or it decayed in the night or it was just a flesh wound and the entrails were tucked back in and the deer awoke and went on it’s way. His sneakers stick to the sticky floor of the bus. He wonders what was spilt. Some sweet tea perhaps or a cheap soda. He wonders at this years popularity of black face and wonders if he is just more observant this year or if there really is an upswing in the popularity from ignorant white people. Everyone of them more defensive than the last to protect their right to be insensitive and racist and bigoted and wrapped in the warm blanket of a privelige they do not understand. Then he looks at the smiling guitar owner on the bus and wonders if he can play the guitar. He thinks about Ron Swanson and wants to do some woodworking. He has no woodworking skills. He will learn but not now and not here on the bus. A small child compares her punishment for misdemeanours with the civil rights struggle of Martin Luther King. It is a fine comparison but not one that stands up to facts as they are but at least she is learning some history. Then he eats a lovely strata breakfast for dinner and then he travels far and is tired and collapses into his bed and ignores the mess and the detritus of his life that is still spread for more than a month now over every surface of his bedroom. There is no guilt. He sleeps.