He’s like a hero come back from the war, a poor maimed bastard living out the reality of his dreams. Wherever he sits himself the chair collapses; whatever door reenters the room is empty: whatever he puts in his mouth leaves bad taste. Everything is just the same as it was before; the elements are unchanged, the dream is no different from the reality. Only, between the time he went to sleep and the time he woke up, his body was stolen.

Tropic of Cancer