Glass Hands by Black Hair Rolled In Dried Blood

The Consul felt a pang. Ah, to have a horse, and gallop away, singing, to someone you loved perhaps, into the heart of all the simplicity and peace in the world; was that not like the opportunity afforded man by life itself? Of course not. Still, just for a moment, it had seemed that it was.
― Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

He sits in a small room listening to their conversations and speaking to himself.
They all listen, dying to answer their own questions. He watches his own likeness reflected in the broadcast on the screen and recognises no-one.

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