He remains immersed in abstraction. Manipulating the very things he once loved. Love? Nevertheless he rummages on. Speeding through pictures of a time lost. Rewriting the phrases he plays in his head. Shutter images of a time lost. Watching the fragmented film of his life before he jumps out the shattered window to escape time lost. He runs through the marshes, sinking into its desperate palms. He thinks he has lost time, and that time has been lost. but the inevitable force of time marches on, plying him from the black waters of hell. You are not dead. Only dying. Awake, as time goes on.