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May 6, 2002
Grey bathwater laps gently around Vincent's pale body in his fluorescent-lit bathroom. An hour earlier an egg could have boiled in the piping hot water. Now it is almost cold. Three pubic hairs cling to the dirty water outlet and Vincent concludes that he has failed miserably in his cleaning duties. Outside, the unmistakable sound of ‘Hey Macarena' drifts in from the living room. At the point in the song where most people would jump around on the dance floor, Vincent closes his eyes tightly, splashes a handful of water across his face and submerges himself beneath the murky surface.