He wakes up. He sees balloon animals and balloon swords and balloon flowers and dinosaurs and poodles and giraffes and then he watches the snow rise above his ankles and his knees and his hips and his nipples and his neck and his forehead even as the snow melts in Sochi. He wonders how many naked videos have been made of him as he sits nude and firm in front of his computer over the years his webcam’s unblinking eye judging him and recording him like HAL. No more than any videos and pictures he has regrettably made himself and disemminated through the sludge of the fetid swamp that is the Internet. Polio is making a resurgance. He hopes that he doesn’t get polio. It would be a talking point at dinner parties but he doesn’t like dinner parties nor is he a particularly good guest. His beard is a good guest but he is not. He dreams but it hurts. Then he hurts as he dreams. Then he burps. Then he stretches his back. Then he listens to a man who is called Mark Lewisohn talking about The Beatles and as The Beatles US playlist is revealed it appears that except for Richie Valens most of the artists are African American and rather than address the idea that some of The Beatles success came from the fact that like Elvis they repackaged black music in a white box for the white music buying public a lot of time was spent on vague discussions of the original genius of the gentlemen from Liverpool and how the Potato Famine in Ireland was actually a larger inheritance. Interesting but dubious and then chicken and donuts and cocktails and cuddles and amusing conversations overhead on the platform about naked selfies and a loud conversation that will just not end about that time when you were having problems and you sent me a picture and it was hard remember that let me find the picture yes it was difficult and you were having trouble remember please be quiet the old man on the street upstairs can’t here you and then he falls asleep.