Stephen Miller lays down on a white rug. He paints himself white from his feet to his undertaker's head. He opens his mouth and paints his tongue white. He gets up and walks outside of his Los Angeles apartment and hears unfamiliar phrases. Sak pase. Lagaca laabe. Oye güero. He panics and runs through the streets all the way to the shore. The Pacific Ocean isn't speaking English either. It's crashing, sloshing, dragging. And the water is not white. It's blue, grey, golden, clear. Stephen Miller begins to dig through the sand, sifting for the white grains. The wind blows the grains out of his hands. He is desperate. He sees a white bird. At last! he thinks. It shits on his head. The shit is grey blue. He runs into a bar and demands that they play Cream, White Room. But it's all wrong. "I'll wait in this place where the sun never shines. Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves." No, he says, Whiter Shade of Pale. Play Whiter Shade of Pale, Procul Harum. He hears the descending organ chords. He begins to relax. He closes his eyes and pictures the color white. Maybe there's a way out this, he thinks. Gary Brooker sings, "We skipped the light fandango." No! What the fuck?! yells Stephen Miller. Did he have to use a Spanish fucking word in that song?! Did he have to?! Fuck this shit. He awakes. Another day inside the stone prison where he used to send people. Fuck this shit, he thinks. Carajo, somebody else says.
