Broken images exploded softly in Carl’s head, and he was moving out of myself in a silent swoop.Clear and sharp from a great distance he saw himself sitting in a lunch room.Overdose of H.His old lady shaking him and holding hot coffee under his nose. Outside an ol junky in Santa Claus suit selling Christmas seals.” Fight tubercolosis, folks!” he whispers in his disembodied, junky voice.Salvation Army choir of sincere, homosexual football coaches signs: ” In the Sweet Bye and Bye.” Carl drifted back into his body,an earthbound junk ghost.” I could bribe him, of course.” The commandate taps the table with one finger and hums “Coming throught the Rye.” Far away,then urgently near like a foghorn a split second before grinding crash.  Carl putted a note half of his trousers pocket. . .

The commandante was standing by a vast panel of lockers and deposit boxes. He looked at Carl, sick animal eyes gone out, dying inside,hopeless fear reflecting the face of death. In the smell of flowers, a note half out of his pocket,the weakness hit Carl,shutting off his breath,stopping his blood.He was in a great cone spinning down to a black point.”Chemical therapy?” The scream shot out of his flesh through empty locker rooms and barracks,musty resort hotels,and spectral, coughing corridors of T.B. sanitariums, the muttering, hawking, grey dishwashing smell of flophouses and Old Men’s Homes, great, dusty custom sheds and warehouses, through broken porticoes and smared arabesques, iron urinals worn paper thin