He wakes up. He is tired. There is heat in the air. There is pollen in the air. It sticks to everything. It has to be waded through. It stinks up the air. There are people collapsing in the street as the plants go to war as the trees go to war as the explosions fill the air fireworks destruction asphyxiation. A visit to a sanitarium shown round by a tired ghost who just wants to disappear into the mist of the past. Squeaky wheels of patient gurneys and the soft weeping of the trapped rabble. A visit to an enormous apartment complex that feels like the set of Rosemary’s Baby with windows down to the floor and no obvious means of securing the safety of residents how many people have fallen or were pushed or jumped from these terrifying dizzying heights to end it all on welcome concrete below? No answer is given to that unasked question. Gadaffi’s son looks like George Bluth Sr. in a bad disguise or possibly George Bluth Sr’s brother in disguise. Oscar Pistorius continues to be interrogated by the prosecution lawyer. He writhes and moans and trembles. He learns about colour and colour theory and human comparative blindess when given the scope of the complete light spectrum of the universe. Then he eats a sandwich and then he lies down. Then he reads. Then he sleeps loudly and with movement and he wakes himself up and then he goes to sleep.