In the clean air I saw him, shot glass clutched forgotten in his hand. Dark lights drove out the last emotions crossing his face. He talk to dolls; talk to himself; talk to a wall hoping someone hears. With pain he hears called at him: “A clear talent this one’s got in ’im,” but he wants none of it. Numbed and uncareful he looks at the clock: “Make sense!” He screams, but it doesn’t. Waves force him down; he talks a wall: “Make me happy.” No response. Wave of nausea. He cries; wave of tears. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?” The other italicises, forming out of thin air; the other endures. “Make sense!” One calls to the other. “Making sense is overrated” Calls back coming again; “Sorry I’m late.” “It’s okay, time doesn’t exist.” His tears dry. Phone rings and he picks up: “Do not be afraid to be in the world; the world is not afraid to be in you.” Hanging up he cries back into the light, no longer wondering. The second makes for the door and exits feeling. Outside smelling of rain and too dark to see.