Dreams turned inside out, only this diffuse and lumbering pinkness of the body, in excess of the mind, in excess of everything. The tea is bitter, there is no path out of this, or deeper into it, everything is made of the same doughy stuff, call it imagination, call it what you will. The trading posts closed up tight, asleep like on a Sunday afternoon, and this muggy heat declaring itself the authentic zero degree. Only the eyes of the child are still open, accepting everything without presumptions, half-awake, cradled in a serviceable world, everything that was flowing, unpredictable and menacing is frozen in place, the music has stopped, the music is forgotten. He is submerged, almost drowned in experience, wrapped up in and assimilated by presence until nothing strange appears, nor could ever appear, ever again.