The man painted himself in all the wrong colours. He drowned himself in whiskey and found his likeness in the bottom of a mirky glass. He quarrelled, waking to a mirror of black and blue remember me bye’s, hiding his true features behind inky stains. He didn’t wash this rugged face and scarcely bathed, sitting in a tub seemed a rotten thing, his black hair matted and course against his skin like some poorly groomed dog, though this man had house and home. He found foul persuasions about himself, cast them out so that they trumpeted about, soaking into the curtains and the walls, making their shades more grey. It dripped into the foundations, and he heard those same doubts playing back to him in the creaks of floorboards, as if they a real thing and not a product of his own imaginings. You see our protagonist had lost himself in that worst of sicknesses, the belief that he was a worthless thing.