The house of thought was closed, its windows boarded up, and he was its shadowy caretaker.

He was a shadow.

Joe was right.

They were both shadows, and this was the unending limbo of toil.

Or was it a dream?
Sometimes, in the steaming, sizzling heat, as he swung the heavy irons back and forth over the white garments, it came to him that it was a dream.