But still, brother, brother—he gets home, back home. I don’t want to continue. Continue—what I like is the little brother. Slowly, slowly—real and unreal, flickering in and out. I still think it’s better to sleep, sleep. The ID is rampaging, acting domineering. The bloopers and footage keep rolling, one after another, one after another. Dad wants to keep going, but he can’t—can’t—can’t. There aren’t just a few, a few, a few, a few, a few times—like what was said at the hemoglobin conference, now then, say it.