at eighty, he sits in half darkness watching the sun of his eyes set – an expatriate in worship, stroking a quarter-mast. he has a copy of playboy magazine in his hand – delusional worship. the thoughts run through his mind whether he will reach the age of his brother – who still runs a country when he should be with him – institutionalized, or the age of his father or further still, the age of his mother – living struldbrugs. his mind is conflicted, should he stroke himself to rest or face the inevitability of further metabolic breakdown and a demented end that further life brings – tormented. he looks around the darkened room, himself sitting in the pool of light cast by a kerosined lantern. three prospects cheer him: he can remain here, abandoned, with a cream-stained preoccupied mind, or rejoin his remaining siblings, or die in restrained freedom. “i wish i was jacob whom his children brought to egypt in his old age – but i know not where my senseless seeds are sowed.” he flips the off-white blotched-stained dog-eared pages of the magazine and settles on blondie – the hopes of having her mirrors the hope of his release or filial reunion. concluding it’s safer to go with the first conflict – he decides it’s time to come to rest from how he came, and he starts to use the magazine furiously – the darkened silence disturbed by his paroxysmal release into perdition.