//

In a dream, a camera came upon the man, who is short, who, additionally, is heavier than is necessary. He wears a black suit over a white oxford, an oxford which gleams dully gold, due to a particular ambience in the bathroom which is to be described in the ensuing text. The man stands in a long bathroom combing his short hair. He bends over the counter into the mirror. The mirror is framed with an ornate gold and floral gild, which extends beyond the gold of the frame of the mirror and into the air around it. The gold frame appears to inform the wallpaper, regarding its ideal condition. The entire bathroom is encrusted with such a dialogue, regarding golden gold.

The man's chin, it seems, is coated with what might, normally, be a fine white lather; however in this bathroom white light in fact turns gold when it reflects off itself qua. the walls and onto his jaw. He scrapes, slowly, at this lather; he does so with a straight razor, a razor which is burnished on its handle with a dull gold. The man slowly turns the tap and begins rinsing his face. It is now revealed that in the yellow light against the golden sink the water shines with gold. It has not yet been determined, nor ought it be determined, whether flecks of gold in fact run through this water. I believe there is a cinnamon liqueur which contains such a gold; but as stated, that is not for us to decide here.

He rinses the fine lather from his face. He turns out and looks again into the lens.

"Yes," gruffly. "Yes indeed," slowly. "I in fact have heard about all those people out there, without bathrooms. Indeed, it's terrible. How is one to function without a bathroom?" His jawline, which previously had small hairs protruding from it, no longer has any, unless perhaps his shaving-project is incomplete. But that is not to be demonstrated now.

"Truly. Such a condition would be unbearable. It's absolutely unthinkable." The man begins attending to his reflection anew. What appears to be the case is that the light, which as established burns with a low, hyperbolic gold, has caused his flesh to lapse into a sort of hysteria in the angelic clutches of which it itself resembles gold. The man reaches out, and determines that what is now crucial is to stroke the face as it appears so in the mirror. He raises his fingers, the skin of which makes contact with a cold glass that would otherwise appear to be silver. He moves his fingers vertically, whispering in a low tone of barely a carat.

"Appalling. No bathrooms."

He offers his visage a conciliatory slap, the sound of which sounds harmonically through the golden air. Satisfiedly, this man angles his face so that he is able to glance backward at the lens and return to himself.

He begins to smooth his hair to the side.