He stared at the thick column of light that sank through his window and right on through to his bedspread--stared at the countless specks of dust and lint swirling there--particles, particles, particles-- ever slowly, twisting, spinning, never straying from their glowing path, hanging there as if held by some imaginary force, suspended somehow in that golden space.  Slowly he cupped his hands into the light, watched his fingers glow, marked how the light spilled over still, onto the photo album, the bed, the floor, and then where?  If he could only follow that column to the the end, where would he be?  How the lint spun onward, bouncing in air, bumping off particles, endlessly twisting and turning about, swirling and churning and pivoting still.  He the dust. He the lint, surrounded, detached, in that measureless ocean of light.  Would he never stop swirling, twisting, spinning? Woud he ever find some place to land?