He might even be trying to think, he reasons, as he sits upright and wiggles the things with nails.
Oh yes, those are hands- good to know, good to know, he thinks to himself. Ah yes, thinking is good again. He ought to do more of it, once he’s out.
Water in a Museum, he muses as he picks his way along a chunky side of ceiling with beef. Or is it plaster? He’s the Lady of Charlotte.
There are pictures; pictures, portraits, sculptures, dioramas, coffins, fanes and pyramids and tombs, all immortalized like thick paint on a canvas. Some of them are made of paint, actually. Some are made of water… some are made of dreams. There’s a framed banana-peel, somewhere, hidden among the endless Impressionist Rassilons and Expressionist Others. No love for Omega?
He stares at no particular piece, grinning at no particular thought as he trundles along. A greenish bluish brownish coat, the round buttons candid and large beneath a velveteen lapel, flaps softly against a patterned, usually silver vest. A sometimes silverish cravat. A white dress shirt. Not a bit smartish, on the whole; no, it’s rather a lot rash. Still, so very sharp! And sporting!
A bell sounds from somewhere.
All around, Not-Flesh squeals in the dark.
He’ll wear this sleeping lion’s skin for now, he reasons, reaching into the lovely land of velvet for the portable satellite.
After all, he can’t have the bloody monkeys in his dream, now can he?