A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.