From W7:
I'm so fucking weak, he thought, raising a hand to the departing fanatic and his collector's books. I can't even stare down an old lady in the store.
****
After the funeral, Danny had climbed into bed at six in the evening and stayed there, except to piss, shit or forage in the fridge, for three days. The TV had never gone off: when he'd exhausted his ability to watch home improvement and cooking shows, he'd dozed through an entire bowling tournament, two seasons worth of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," and a meticulously rigorous show about sailing - "Ask me what a yard-arm is," he'd have showed off, if he was able to talk to anyone, or even change his pajamas and the same black t-shirt that was starting to smell as rank as his sheets.
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