He dreams the rain on the windows. There are girls in the walls, bones of a small animal beneath the bed. In these dreams he's always dead or half dead, propped against the door like an old saw. He believes he may be waiting for something or someone , a ghost or a bone man, or a woman with a cat's smile carrying a crystal decanter or crystal meths. His hands are very soft, the bones may have gone. His feet though are hard & tough, like rock or metal or the back of the door he leans against. Sometimes it seems to him he may no longer be quite human, no longer quite of this world, or the world next door for that matter. Sometimes he's not even sure he's here at all