It was the year of our lord [illegible] when Jobbin woke up. A handsome youth was by his bedside with pale skin and a haunting ambiguous expression in his face. Jobbin was confused and asked where was he and the youth replied the hospital, recounting as much of Jabbin’s story as was well known at that time – that he worked for that certain company, that he had come to town on matters related to Regional Office, that he had failed to get even an audience there with people there he needed to see and that receptionist there were laughing at him a lot. Jobbin was worried he might have lost his job or something but the pale youth assured him all was OK and that his wages were still somehow paid into his account minus medical deductions despite the fact he was all this long time in a deep and enchanted coma.

Jobbin was so tired and much of what the youth said dint wake no sense. He tried to ask questions but after a short time the youth (of a gender that was not immediately certain) put fingers to their lips (their own lips not that lips that were belonging to Jobbin) and Jobbin drifted back to sleep, awash in the stench of hospitalised bleach, chemicals and overcooked food.

He dreamed of a fight between himself and a succession of sad looking middle-age people from post-soviet republics and then of a strange forest that didn’t make botanical, geographical or any other kind of sense, then (in the dream) he was somehow back waiting at the reception of the Regional Office only everyone there looked much older than they did before and their eyes looked more empty and the walls had been painted another colour that was very hard to describe. In the Dream he was sitting on that white/chrome Argos sofa and all the time looking past reception to a door he could just make out in a distance, where he know the Manager he needed to interview was probably working but he could not figure closely how to get passed the watchful receptionists etc. Long time (in the dream) he looked at them but it dint do no good.

Next time he woke it was approximately a year (1 year) later. The room he was in was different – not hospital anymore and beside him was no one sitting, not the youth as mentioned before, only a small bell on a table that he stiffly extended his arm to pick up and ring it. The bell rang in the room and after a short time of Jobbin lay there waiting someone came in that he recognise immediately – it was the tall woman from the Café Myopias all that time ago.