Notwithstanding my continuous fever, I dreamed in troubled slumber about jungle, endless fire of submachine guns and steady soaking rain, thick splashes of mud were overall and I felt some fervent ardour, death agony, last struggle in that odoriferous air ribbing my guts out.. Obviously, there was only lack of the Doors's riders on the storm as a soundtrack of this nightmare. Well, Garland undoubtedly is not a bedside book, now I've felt it on my own back.