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It is a strange thing to lead a life of hallucination. It is perhaps a thing stranger still to lead a life in which hallucination and its counterpart share an equal role. He is somewhere, in a bed, looking at a wall. He looks at the wall with the meditative yet not quite connected look a sleeper just waking gives the objects in the small world around him. This is nice, he thinks. The world is a simple place. All a person has to do is lie here and, whether awake or asleep or somewhere in beween, be. He looks at the raw stump of his handless forearm. There's no need to get upset about such things, he thinks.