The sun blasts through David Pilcher’s pipe and the light snatches him into the void. He careens away into nothingness, immobilized and helpless. He can neither move nor speak within his glutinous suspension, and it carries him with an unstated purpose. Through a darkling shroud he sees the spotlight on the stage at Woodstock. He watches Napoleon sip his wine on Elba. He sees the stars of the southern cross and hears the sea crash at the feet of chiclet teethed Bikini ladies walking the beaches of Australia. Diamonds strewn at the feet of philosophers in Greece beckon to Davy to come, come, take one home. He is inside and outside and part of and separate from a blinding trail of shimmering intention, which races to fulfill the longings of his imagination. His is a journey of escape and he arrives he knows not where. As his gelatinous restraints leave him, a wall of reality storms toward him like a freight train and two bony hands reach for his throat.