In the deepest part of his mind or soul or whatever it is – Cosmo is alone. He is set adrift in a boat, naked in the hot sun. Walking in the desert, drifting in the air without a parachute. He walks and talks like Cosmo . . . but the feel of his body is alien to him. The heart is not his . . . He has gone from the child to the adult and there is no turning back. All the innocence of his previous years seems distant and without recollection of their details. Nothing goes together and yet he can see everything much too clearly. A waitress’s face strikes him . . . the bar looks like it needs to be redone. The bartender moves with too much effort, and sudden insightful flashes of doom wall up his mind. He watches Mr. Sophistication. He views Sherry behind. The comic sings . . . ‘Imagination is funny’ . . . The hard, coarse strains of the too heavy tape hurt his side and he looks down to see blood.