On a dawn the color of moss, I lead myself away to be executed. My leg irons clank. In a tree, a bird makes a horrible ruckus, like a fat German man choking to death on an eel bone. We pass a nun who is the spitting image of Herbert Hoover. "Mercy," I say to her. "I'm a Christian," she says, "and not in the mercy business." We approach the gallows. I see the noose, say, "I'm not really into neck wear. Do you have one that's clip on?" Then I wake up, and somebody has written on my bedroom wall, "It takes a special kind of intestinal constitution to live solely on barbed wire."