One day all the rays of light hidden in the bed began to pour straight up. It was as if a rainbow had been hidden in the bed’s puffy bladder, and began to be pissed out through a lot of tiny holes. Like a rainbow being snuck out through some pinholes. But the beauty of the rainbow is confused and cannot rejoin unitary archness. The beauty of the rainbow is retained in tiny strings like omnivorous spittle of all light hung out to dry upside down like little lost stalactites of the spectrum. And the bed like a fish out of which all the ingredients have snuck. The bed lies down on the sea-floor and becomes the pool chair where the gray age of forgotten starlets grows, like a gray moss of the background, eclipsing the vitality of washed-up vessels (the unlimited exuberance passes us, having done us, as individuals, the good it could do us: my gray coat surrounds my infant starlight on the seafloor, as forever as forever as forever bubbles up.) I said, “I am the starlet of the spectrum, and my radiance surpasses vast.” I was only kidding, though: the flipped-over bed is camouflaged to match the sea-floor of the paper-stock.