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There is a poetic beauty in the most ludicrous of surroundings and within the deepest levels of chaos and violence. Haiku fly about in the air as he tries, unsuccessfully, to put himself entirely into one frame of mind. He is unable to focus on anything for long. He has never been able to disguise his emotions; he has never been able to wear the mask that he sees those around him wearing. It is a gift newly received that he is able to see the disturbed thoughts behind those masks. Perhaps he has also himself gained the ability to be opaque; perhaps no one around him recognizes that he is experiencing his own parade of anxieties, his own perpetual haze of confusion. But that's what has been happening: haiku have appeared to him in the air -- as haiku would appear if they were not made out of words. Synesthetically. And can he now do this? Can he taste sound? Can he sense words as colors? He does not know. He thinks he can. No immediate matter, although he has a bit of an insight: perhaps his purpose in this place is to feel confusion. Perhaps this is his power. Perhaps his muse is his hunger, and if he satisfies his hunger he will no longer be inspired, and perhaps he will lose what little identity -- what little cohesive identity, anyhow, that he still possesses.