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And he feels worst because he stomped out of the bedroom in only jeans and walked over to the dim living room, where Fackelmann was wet and with his mouth smeared in the corner next to a mountain of 10 mg Dilaudids, his mixing bowl distilled water, the piping kit and the Sterna stove that he so automatically stomped out to Fackelmann and told himself – told himself, that was the worst – that he told himself he just wanted to check on poor old Fackelmann and maybe try to persuade him to act, to go to Sorkin in repentance or to flee to other realms, at least not just to hide in the corner, the brain idling, the chin on the chest and one getting longer

developing stalactites from chocolate drool on the lower lip. Because he knew exactly when Gately P.H.-J. The first thing Fackelmann would do was look in his GoreTex syringe kit for a new syringe in its original packaging and invite Gately to crouch next to him and make his peace with the planet. I.e. to consume something from the Dilaudid mountain and to keep Fackelmann company. Whatever Gately, to his shame, had done, and Fackelmann’s devil’s kitchen and the need for action hadn’t been mentioned, they were so eager for the sleepy hum of the blues, which faded everything out while Pamela Hoffman-Jeep lay wrapped up in the next room dreamed of damsels and battlements – Gately remembers vividly that Torchman gave them both a decent shot, and that he had convinced himself that he was doing it to keep Torchman company, how to sit down with a sick friend, and (what maybe the worst was) that had also believed.

Small unreactions from feverish dreams interrupt the memories and the, so to speak, waking state. He dreams that he is going north in a bus the same color as its own exhaust fumes, he keeps coming across the same robbed houses and billowing seas and cries. The dream does not stop at all, there is no solution or arrival, and it cries and sweats while lying there and stuck. Gately jerks to himself when he feels a sharp, rough tongue on his forehead – a bit like the groping tongue of Nimitz, the cuddly kitten from the MP when he still had his kitten, before the puzzling time when the kitten disappeared and the garbage chute did not work for days and the M.

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