The sun blasts through David Pilcher's pipe and snatches him into the void. He careens away into nothingness, immobilized and helpless. He can neither move nor speak within his glutinous suspension, yet it carries him with what he senses is acceptance. He is inside and ouside and part of and separate from a blinding trail of shimmering intention, which races to fulfil the longings of his imagination. He arrives he knows not where and as his gelatinous restraints leave him, a wall of reality hurtles toward him like a freight train as two bony hands reach for his throat.