Harrys guts were squirming. The first half hour or so after Marion left he just sort of sat back and hung loose with the dope and watched the tube. He kept telling himself that she would be back in a couple a hours and that everything would be cool, but as the minutes accumulated slowly something seemed to tighten and grow in his gut then swelled and rolled up to his chest and tugged at the back of his throat so that he was resisting a vague feeling of nausea. In a way he didnt mind the physical discomfort because he could dwell on it and avoid the things that were going on in his head, the things that were progressively growing and developing into images as well as words, images and words he didnt want to see or hear. After an hour he was really getting fidgety. He looked at his watch several times in less than five minutes, each time amazed at the time, feeling certain that more time than that had passed, then directing his eyes back to the tube, then thinking again about the time, not believing that he had looked at his watch correctly and so he would look at it again and be annoyingly disappointed at the reality of the time and so go back to the tube again, repeating the same procedure many times before getting up and changing the channel on the fuckin set from one station to another, each fuckin show looking worse than the one just flicked off and so he went through all the stations several times before tuning in an old movie, and sat back on the couch and consciously fought against looking at his watch. He smoked half a joint figuring it would settle his stomach and when he finished he leaned back and unconsciously put his right hand over his watch and tried to develop an interest in the show by staring at the tube, but it wouldnt even absorb the energy in the surface of his mind, and he was becoming increasingly aware of the images and words forming in his head so he directed his attention to his physical discomfort and when he thought he might be going to puke he got a box of Mallomars and started munching on them as he stared at the tube and fought the images that seemed to be churning in his gut and flashing across his mind and he kept shoving them down and out or some goddamn fuckin place but his sickness was reaching up to his head and soon every part of his body was sick with, and from, the fight, and he fought as long and as hard as he could but eventually he looked at his watch again and the sonofabitch had stopped and he felt like tearing it off his wrist and throwing it out the fuckin window but then he realized that that was great, that it must be a hell of a lot later than he thought so he dialed the time number and listened to the taped voice and the beep, a terrible sadness flooding his body as he looked at his watch and continued to listen to the voice tell him the time again and again and each time his watch was exactly right and no matter how long he listened to the voice and the tone and stared at those fuckin hands the time wouldnt change and now the sadness was welling up behind his eyes and he felt like a flood of tears was trying to force itself out and his body was bent as he hung up the phone and sat on the couch and stared at the tube while he remained painfully crushed by the hands on his watch and no matter how slowly time moves it is inevitable and now there had been hours that elapsed since she had left and the images and words no longer just vaguely floated around within him, gently pushing against his consciousness, now they would suddenly flash in front of him, almost as if they were outside him thrusting themselves at him and he could see Marion in bed with some big fat fuck who was fuckin the ass off her and he would quickly turn his head and groan and turn and squirm in his seat and he/d curse the fuckin tube and change the channel hoping there would be some fuckin thing on that he could watch and he kept telling himself they were just going to dinner and that you cant just borrow bread and split, but you have to sit and drink wine and bullshit and smile and suck his—what kindda fuckin show is this? and he spun the fuckin dial and he could no longer stop the image of some hulking fuckin guy shovin it in and he quickly tried to clothe them and put them in a restaurant drinking coffee and talking, but he couldnt hold on to the image and even while he did a little voice in the back of his head was mocking him and whispering, Bullshit, Bullshit, Bullshit, and he tried closing his eyes tight and shaking his head but that didnt do any good, it only put a spotlight on the bed they were in and even if he could get them at a table she was reaching under the table and Harry went to the bathroom and used one of the bags he was going to save for tomorrow, but fuck it man, I need it now, that last bag was cut too much, the shit just aint too tough and I sure as fuck dont wanta get sick and not be able to get out there and make it, yeah, thats what I/ll do, I/ll get off and see whats happening in the street, maybe theres somethin happenin now and I can cop somethin decent, I cant sit around here all night watchin the fuckin tube, thatll drive me up a fuckin wall, and he suddenly felt sick and he bent over the bowl and dumped the Mallomars he had just eaten and watched the puke, almost hypnotically, as it flowed so easily from his mouth into the bowl, splashing over the sides slightly, the dark chocolate, the white marshmallow and green bile mixing so beautifully that he smiled at the small ocean below him, dotted with small islands and snowcapped mountains, and he smiled and chuckled and flushed it and tossed some cold water on his face and rubbed it with a towel and felt better and sat on the side of the tub enjoying the flush of reassurance that flowed through his body, the calming peace that descended over him and through him, erasing images and obliterating words, then walked slowly back to the living room and finished off the rest of the joint and leaned back and dug the flick and finished off the rest of the Mallomars, feeling mellow and cool for a while, and then he started noticing the time, and now time was registering in hours and that muthafuckin image was coming back and he tried to squeeze that voice out of his head but it just mocked him and continued its insidious whisperings and giggling and soon the restaurant was well lighted and the walls were down and he couldnt get them back up no matter how hard he tried and soon he stopped trying and just watched the games unfold themselves as Marion and the sonofabitch rolled around in bed and he was fuckin her every which way and Harrys stomach kept getting more and more hollow and it seemed to be wide open and the wintering winds were tearing through him and at the same time his gut seemed to be alive with twisting and turning maggots and rats and angry and sad tears moistened the back of his eyes and his head felt like it was going under water and the terrible sickness grew and grew within him as he stared at the images and now he was helping them along and feeding them energy, energy that came from someplace within him and drained him even more and the pain increased and the nausea continued to build up but somehow he knew he wouldnt puke, that he would just hang on to the nausea, and he unconsciously had a hand on his crotch and he drew his legs up on the couch and was slowly, but inexorably, folding himself into a fetal position and he kept shoving the nausea down with cigarettes and the more he watched the images on the screen inside his head the more his heart seemed to grow in size and threaten to just push his ribs apart and ooze out of his chest while some goddamn fuckin thing swelled in his throat and he had to force the air down and he suddenly jumped up and changed the fuckin channel and spun through all the stations a few more times then sat back on the couch and stretched his eyes open as wide as possible and tried not to fight or indulge the images, but the sickness persisted and he slowly stopped fighting and just surrendered to that hollow, sick, dead thing inside him and all the pain and dread and anguish became one enveloping veil of despair that was almost a comfort now that the struggle was over, and he just sat back and stared at the tube, almost interested in what was happening, trying to find the ability to believe in that lie so he could believe the one within.