He was thinking about reason. About how, for a short moment, he could see himself clearly: living with a woman in a large, empty house. He thought he might cherish the all-inclusive vacations, the daiquiris chaliced in tropical fruit cups. And he thought something else, too. He thought about the Greek mathematicians, who argued one did not involve number. That the hybrid marriage of one and two begot three. He thought it might be sweet, to have something to come home to – a roast perhaps, or a nice bit of lamb with a solid mint sauce. But then, he thought of that song—the one where one was the loneliest number but two could be as bad as one. He suddenly remembered two could be the loneliest number since the number one. And when he went to sleep that night, he thought of his poor head. And then he thought of Goya, and Goya’s poor head. And he thought how sad it was to sleep—his skull assaulted by all those owls and bats.