Page 7 of These Monstrous Deeds

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Carter wonders if he should drink his own piss. It’s been a long time since he’s had to go, considering there’s nothing left in him, so all he has is the old stuff in the corner. It’s probably cold, though he’s not sure if that’s a positive or negative thing. He’s also not sure if it’s still safe to drink, or if bacteria manifests the longer it sits out. In fact, he’s not sure if it’s safe to drink at all, fresh or not.Was the whole drinking your pee thing a myth?Those survival stories where people drink their own piss could be false. It could have the same effect as seawater to thirsty sailors. Things might just get worse.

God, he’s thirsty.

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Carter lays back down and sighs, his body thanking him for giving up before wasting any more energy. It wasn’t on board with his drinking urine plan. It wants him to just stay the fuck still and try to keep warm. His fingers and toes are beginning to go numb. He hopes that doesn’t mean anything too serious.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Will Carter ever see the stars again?He’s starting to think he’ll never even experience light again, let alone something as magnificent as the night sky. His best hope is during transport, he supposes. If he’s not blindfolded. Or dead by then.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

Carter closes his eyes. He remembers figuring out in his analysis that Wordsworth was drawing all of the imagery from his memories, the man in fact lying on a couch with his eyes closed the whole time. Maybe that’s what Carter’s problem is. Maybe he needs to close his eyes. Maybe then he’ll see what Wordsworth did.

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

It doesn’t work.

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