Float me a platter of ampules in place of breakfast. Please do brush the grime from your feet ahead of time: the old carpet is starting to struggle under the dark of permanent wear from the hallway to the bed, since we set this same metronome each morning. My covers are crusted to my dewlaps, and I could use a cool shot from your cocktail tray— it might muffle the bleat and peal of my soured conscience— to chip me loose from my still December puddle. I will be blown-in insulated by cottony palliatives; the oculus stalk craned to focus into the cavernous geode of colored blips which compose habitats in my shifting imaginings. "I want to be a real boy," I say in the quiet of my soundproofed skull, the deadened place where no jeer nor laughter of the mob can penetrate— those crowds of we who mock the dying man for his dying, we who milk stimulus through pert voyeurism at the sad throes of human wretchedness. No, with a favorable mixture of your silvered anesthetics I'll log-roll from my sleep, out of my dermis, and into a pasture thronged by formerly unhappy icons who have attained high enlightenment by synergistic mood enhancers. Can I now eat my first meal from within the com- forting capsule of my caterpillar suit, where I will outmaneuver all the insufferable raindrops? I generally weep in foul weather.