He wakes up. His shoulders ache. He is cold he is warm he is cold he is warm he is on a bus he is on a car as he slides on the bonnet off into a ditch and rolls and ducks and covers from the mushroom explosions that drift from the horizon. He is in a neon desert resting under a neon cactus waiting to be buried in a neon grave. His bones are neon and his teeth are glowing. He feels strange creatures travelling through his arteries and his veins and collecting in his heart and his brain and his elbows and his lobes. He realises that there is no escape because the thing he is trying to escape from is already inside him and if it gets out he will die so he gives up and eats a string cheese and then some toast and then mourns the bag of brown mash that used to be bananas that is rotting in his cupboard and then he has to decide between Candy Crush or Sartre two competing Totems of the western world. The music, the popular culture the wrappings and the odors of wealth simmering every so slightly in the approaching storm of revolution. Inequality requires rebalance at some point. Rome knew, France knew, Athens knew, Ashoka knew, Britain knew, will we know. what we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history and then We become water droplets in a cloud that at a distance looks like a solid surface upon which to walk. Then there is bliss and blues and coffee and bagels and laughter and old episodes of Magnum and The A-Team and Saturday Night Live and Justine Bieber and failure and there is a murder at a mall and it is another sad day in America but of course guns are not the problem they are never the problem. He goes to sleep.