Listening to a scarlet sink, detached an ear, still glistening wax, in bloody conch. The gaping flesh. Wild scattered eyes fiercing the mirror. Light ricochets from trembling blade (it's gaslight evening and the breeze ...) Behind his stooping shoulders, a painted room ablaze the dripping composition of his blood. The winding crowd inflates the curtains inwards, sails of a flying Dutchman.