His lashes were knotted and dustcaked. When did his credit card expire? When did the convention end? Eons pass in crowds of fanboy fatties; in the room only days pass. His wooly eyes kept rebelling against the sun as it persisted in pouring its fiery milk. It needed to be softer, and softer it became as dust formed a crust with the hand-lotion rosettes he had wiped upon the glass pane. The mornings that he woke to more light than he could bear, he rang the concierge and croaked, “Lotion. More lotion in 1974. Just leave it outside the door.”