He wakes up. Sluggish shoulder weeping bright blinding snow economic disparity rolexes for breakfast. Horror in Central African Republic. Horror in Syria. Horror in England. Horror in California. Horror in Indonesia. Volcanoes, carbon dioxide trapped in the ocean ready to be released in one giant fart that will poison us, James Lovelock concluding we have already passed the tipping point. A world in which the phrase earmarked for investment fills the heart of local people with terror as they watch the enormous mouth swallow them up into the lightless belly of capitalism and empire. He watches a white man let off for killing a black man but convicted of attempting to kill three other black men and and it doesn’t seem to matter that a black man was murdered for playing music too loud. Then a female skiier shatters her spine. A co-pilot of an Ethiopian airplane hijacks it and flies it to Geneva to ask for political asylum. Then he watches House of Cards. Then he watches as miners in a mine collapse refuse to be saved because they have been digging gold illegally and do not want to be arrested and prefer to remain in their tomb than face the law. Then he moves his vandalized car and he calls NPR and they agree to pick it up and then there is snow and more snow and then even more snow. Then he drinks too much coffee and too much gin and too much whiskey and plays too much flappy bird and gets fifteen points which he is too happy about and then he despairs at the quality of science debate in the world and then he falls asleep.