Amidst these thoughts, his breakfast arrives. He picks up his fork and
wields it almost exactly the way he holds his pen. A quarter of a
grilled mushroom sits in the penumbra of a fried egg, only just
touching the quivering yolk. He stares at this local arrangement among
the galaxy of other comestibles and spears the bit of yolk touching
the mushroom with his fork. The warm, yellow life flows freely from
the gash, spilling around the mushroom. When the vegetable's perimeter
is closed, the runny liquid begins the congeal, entrapping the
mushroom. This configuration reminds him of a womb. The foetus is the
mushroom. The yolk is the lining. The trail to the remainder of the
yolk is the vaginal tube and ultimately the path to freedom. But the
child has grown too large and is swollen to the size of the whole
uterine cavity. It should have exited long ago. In a hysterical
moment, he imagines the dream again and himself in the chamber which
is now a uterus. The flapping tube above him is the only path to
freedom. He must take it before he, too, swells to press from every
side the walls of the chamber. He, then, like the mushroom, would only
know salvation by being ripped or cut out of the cavity, which would
surely mean either death or the end of the dream. He recalls waking
in a frenzy of sweat. He impales the grilled mushroom on his fork and
tears it from its womb.