Is full of all the usual anxieties, changing hands and lanes and prices and into uniform. Our pedestrian rolls down a hill beside a highway, spinning glimpse and swooshing sound and galloping grass stain all merging into the traffic jam senses. Along this spin cycle he realises:

His road-bitten bones recall an ancient cramp; for several moments he can but wish for his childhood home, homes, it grows less distinct as the cramp fades. It is replaced by a hot bruise blooming between his shoulders, the wish turns into wash as his mind becomes all sea. This continues to the bottom of the hill, where our man's eyes roll in panic as he accounts for the unconcious period. There is a grey sort of quiet here, and a soft palette of mild rot to greet one's nostrils. He lays still for some time.

He is Deer here, eventually flinching back into man, or at least laddie. He notices a telephone pole, and remembers enough of his humanity to make a sign of the cross in recognition.

He sets out parallel to the telephone lines, dusk setting firefly vigil. Pinpricks of light begin to spread between the lines, and he starts to whistle. As he's whistlepissing, he looks upwards and suddenly wonders at the sheet music above him.