NEW WRITING:

He sat. He breathed slowly, blinked on occasion. It was night, or it seemed that way - it was early, or it was late. He allowed visions to congeal across his eyes. They shifted like old technicolor films - thick, meandering, vaselined, and voided of content. Visions would stay awhile - offering engineered dramas, events that happened - and didn't; superimposed characters, that were close and not, and that were - and were not. Then they would slowly, heavily begin to slide away  - like sludge at the bottom of a can of baked beans, something that happened, that seemed tangible - but probably wasn't. He couldn't really remember if any of this was real, he wouldn't remember. He was tired and confused. The hour was early, or the hour was late.