These songs of love and grief congeal into an undifferentiated mass. He knew of love in a way he doesn’t understand and becomes the only way he knew how to love. He wakes up on a bed wet with tears and sweat, crumpled within layers upon layers of his dreams spilling over to the voice of his father’s ignorance. All of a sudden, he bleeds but he does not know why. He displaces symbols with symbols, all faltering within the limitations of the word, trailing off from sign to sign which becomes so condensed that he no longer knows what was in the first place and he no longer sees the image of himself whenever he catches his reflection unexpectedly. He notices a gap between himself and his image and can only fill it with the things that hurts him the most—abjection abstracted from one’s scrutiny. He trembles on the lap of another man who shares the same secrets as he, the same past hidden unwillingly in the same room. People are celebrating and singing but the scene ends with a song so disjointed that no one is able to learn.