He's still young--; thirty, but looks younger-- or does he?... In the eyes and cheeks, tonight, turning in the mirror, he saw his mother,-- puffy; angry; bewildered... Many nights, now, when he stares there, he gets angry:-- something unfulfilled there, something dead to what he once thought he surely could be-- Now, just the glamour of habits... Once, instead, he thought insight would remake him, he'd reach --what? The thrill, the exhilaration unravelling disaster, that seemed to teach necessary knowledge... became just jargon.
Sick of being decent, he craves another crash. What reaches him except disaster?
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