He was lying on a soft bed. On the ceiling was a huge screen displaying a scene from the movie Peer Gynt, though he did not remember when he had seen it or who he was then. Gynt had been running through the mist-filled night on a moor studded with many firs charred to the trunk by a forest fire. He had been pursued relentlessly by balls of thread, thoughts made physical and animated. Then he had come upon a sinister old man, the Button-Molder, who carried a box of tools and a big casting ladle. The molder had told Gynt that he had been looking for him and that he was going to melt down Gynt in his ladle. Gynt was a flawed button, a casting missing a loop. Gynt was arguing that he was not a bad fellow at heart. Though he had been many selves, few of them admirable, the real Gynt was at the core, and he was worth saving from destruction. The Button Molder: “But, my dear Gynt, why all this fuss/Over a technical point like this?/Your self is just what you’ve never been./So, what’s the difference to you if you get melted down?”
