Finally, the sailor found his voice. ‘I HAVE NO DRUNKEN-NESS OF BEING!’ he shouted at the crowd. ‘I cannot justify myself to you. And what are you going to do about it?’ ‘He is rebelling,’ said the crowd. ‘He is expressing himself. Surely he is drunk on his own being?’ ‘Where is my drunken-ness of being?’ asked the four-square man. ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ shouted the sailor, grasping the four-square man by the lapels of his jacket. ‘Why are you shouting?’ said a voice behind him. The sailor looked down at his hands as they grasped at thin air, miming the action he thought he had been doing. ‘Are you drunk, are you mad, are you losing the plot?’ The small, dark girl circled him on her bicycle. ‘You again,’ the sailor groaned. ‘What hell is this?’ The small, dark girl stopped her cycling. She surveyed the sailor with her eyes that glittered like drops of jet. ‘This isn’t hell,’ she said calmly. ‘This is your sorrow and your joy.’ The sailor released the air that was still clenched between his fists. He felt tired. For the first time in a span that could not be calculated, he felt his weariness.