He attracts buenas vibras, or sympathy, which is why they give him another drink when he’s there. Back home the rules are black and white. This will be the pint of no return.
Vaguely disturbed by the smell of shit, the pulse in his head rocks the bed. This is operant pain. Last night’s tomfoolery was all for a girl who works at a bar. The rank smell is naively attributed to a rank fart in his sleep.
His body hurts but the torment of consciousness holds his mind awake with the brutality of a headlock. In the predawn hours, this installment of the daily joust with The Sleep is particularly hard to achieve.
He notices that the rapid, tidal qualities of the room ease when his head comes up from the pillow. Of course there’s a causal relationship between proximity to the pillow and happy. It finally occurs to him why the graph of comfort is shaped in an arc.
Another dangerous movement comes at dawn; the time, he thinks with difficulty (thinking makes his head hurt) , where sleeping for another hour will only make the day worse.
He’s got a fifteen minute buffer up his sleeve to submit to The Sleep before he ends this silly game and hits the bathroom to drain the piss, which he’s thankful hasn’t happened in the bed — a sign of the cross or prayer is scheduled for around lunch.