Pictures flit across his mind. Holding a frosty, opal drink made out of nothing, he picked up bits of un-stringed, clutter – some sounds made in green, dark rooms under a slinking layer of narcotic haze; conflated arguments over pop – psychology, overrated suicides and other crimson faff. It had been 28 hours since day had struck. The wires were giving out and people had started crouching outside on the porches, sweating from the stifling underbelly heat of the land. Just then, in the second floor of an inclined wooden block by the street, his head pressed to one of the walls of the room, Fat had a stroke. It was anamnesis. And it had struck him thrice in the forty three years of his non – existence.