His scarlet face lights up the room where he’s alone. Alone with his portrait that stirs inside the glass. Is it really him? Could that be someone else’s eye? It wouldn’t frighten him. He missteps and as he moves forward he bursts out laughing. He thinks that this head is speaking—the one in front of him, its eyes open, drunk. The ceiling lowers, the walls are going to burst, and he laughs. He laughs at the fire that warms his belly, at the clock that beats like his heart. The room is rolling—a boat whose mast would crack if the wind picked up. And unaware that he’s dropping onto the bed where he’ll fall asleep, he thinks he’s still dreaming that the waves are carrying him away. Too far. Now there’s nothing but the idiot laughter of the alarm clock, the disquieting motion of the door.