Suddenly Eric was seeing the bed from a new angle, because he was falling off of it. On the way to the floor, he found a place to pause, a snapshot where shock caught and caged his perception. It was not far to the floor. But he was not there yet. Then he was on the floor, like an infant barely hurt (hurt by the surprise, only) with his shoulders on the phony mammal stuffing of the ratty carpet, full of flakes of dandruff, grains of soil, loose ends of hair. The phony mammal stuffing of the ratty carpet almost overwhelmed him with its pseudo-living scent. It was one of those shocking moments of being embraced and adored by an imitation, one of those moments when your soul is rolling around loose and you might find yourself with a new used soul by accident. This new used soul would be new to you but would have been used by someone else. Eric’s old used soul would then be swallowed by the carpet, which would be one way to escape the bed. The bed was full of souls, as beds can be. Even chastity betokeneth such privileges in the open-mouthed and gaping realm of souls, which is why nuns must be carefully trained against the nocturnal entrances of demons. “That’s a load of bull-shit,” Eric thought. “I live in the fucking real world,” Eric thought. My soul isn’t going to disappear like a sign through a carpet of artificial fibers,” Eric thought. “Shit like that bull-shit like that doesn’t happen doesn’t happen,” Eric thought. “I’m dreaming and I’m still in bed, I’m dreaming and I’m still in bed, I never saw I never saw myself I never caught myself off of it,” Eric thought. Suddenly Eric was seeing the bed from a new angle, because he was falling off of it. He was still only halfway to the floor when he found a place to pause, a snapshot where shock caught and caged and cushioned his perception. A cradle of shock. The bed was at a halfway angle, as if his sense of his own position had not been adjusted yet.