a rumpled gentlemen with his head on a desk-- the bent light of his mind snaps with an aberrative upthrust. Goya's: "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters"-- as bats fall to fly with a staggering jaggedness, the twilight goes underground. they're a flexuous miasma above the gentleman's head, or like snakes climbing the glass of an aquarium. a leathery dark with a bald purple gleam, smoked clean through. reveals the wickedly behooved whites of eyes, expanding with what will be consumed. this kind of sleep does more than warm death over, the sleeper is made to watch himself do things--with no electric blue escape route.