He awakes from a dream of perpetual and public failure, helplessness replayed wondrous and passing strange. Bed sheets soaked with the sweat of desire, all of it pooling together, inert, to yellow the tattered sheets. His body seeking to expel or expand the endless energy inside him, reaching out in every direction, like a universe rent apart by the sum gravitational pull of its planetary members - or gaining so much mass it will inevitably implode. Implode, explode, he can't decipher to which end he will arrive at first - but in the end the end's the same, and certain. Around him loves lie everywhere, taking form as ruddy trinkets, flawless flesh -  fresh to def but always out of reach. The beauty of it all is unbearable, an overinflated red balloon like Lester talked about, one that would carry you skyward until it was burned by the sun - and you'd come tumbling down. Lester would say stop trying to hold on to it - enjoy every moment of your stupid little life. But his impulses speak otherwise. Tumbling is beside the vantage point, or rather after it, an end that befalls both the dreamers and dreamless. To fear the end is to somehow fail to see that mankind can fly at all! And so he'll continue to catch those upward currents, and fall, and fall, and fall.