EMERGING C

I wonder if he remembers from last time the bed, the plexiglass box, captain of his own starship, surrounded by machines and measurements, indicating instruments and panels of lighted shapes and signifiers--gentle, persistent alarm.

Does he remember anything?  The sounds, smells, the perspective looking at an angle up at NURSE and acoustic tile?  The feel of plastic in his nose and adhesive on his face, glued monitors and burrowing hose?

He remembers, I know, the voice of SHEHERTHEONE singing about the boat on the river so like his cushioned container adrift on a tide of morphine, hearing though not seeing.  Hearing is enough for now, and, in a dream, for now, the boat is heading gentle on the stream, to reveal to someday's merry maid the already broken hearted boy now thus unbreakable.