Nixon's roads are paved with Ronnybrook butter. His bell sounds with extinct coins.
In the mornings, he cannot get warm enough. He perches on the furnace and sloshes down his tea. He remembers his dream of a patchwork field seen from the sky.
"Look at those lovely houses," he sighed in the dream, to which some stranger said, by way of comfort, "They're only roofs."
It was very cinematic. The sinner in him waltzed.