Lightning from the Dark Cloud; pt. 2: Red Wine, Red Wine, the Curse, the Curse of the Vineyard Vine

The madman awoke before sunrise from dreams of gods and frogs. He rolled over. Freezing light filters down from the gently paling sky of a new dawn. The last stars give mute consent to the day - eyes squinting in an attempt to open.
In the confusion of semi-consciousness he picked dried blood and mucus from his nose while both his stomachs churned.
The trees of winter give sharp shape to the chill empty space of air surrounding the hills. If only one of these stomachs would stop churning. As he woke a little more his perceptions cleared and his two stomachs became one. He laughed and then vomited. His head ached. Red wine.
The night’s final moth falls from the sky dying, landing on a figure curled up and motionless – face down in the dirt at the bottom of a slope.1

He found his face in dirt – crush, crack, crick, crick - which clung in little muddy patches to the vomit around his mouth and nose. The dirt was icy, as was the breeze, which licked the back of his neck like a dog. Dirt so soft like ash. On the forehead they criss-crossed. But the dirt was immensely dry, that ash wet. He remembered strange dreams. As with most dreams, he recalled only the residual sensation left in his mind like a wine stain; it was no feeling he knew. Yet. Where had he come from? To lay here in the dirt, which smelled of death, of dry. Had he sleepwalked? The dust made his skin tight and his throat sore. Surrounded by dirt.
The dirt that I’m made from: that I will return to. Read somewhere about a young girl who would eat nothing but earth. They tried to stop her by befouling the ground but she kept finding fresh patches. He wondered if there was something in that and wondered how you could bring yourself to eat dirt.
The figure stirs a little. Turning a face to the sky. And standing.
Upright now on dizzy legs he turned and looked up the hill he had been sleeping against. At the top of the rise he saw a large, dark building looming over him. Terrifying in its blackness. Fear and sickness gripped him and he ran, holding back bile and screams. His toes stubbed upon outcrops of rock as he struggled up the next hill, feeling the horrible numb pain that comes when flesh is cold. He saw blood on his feet and looked back. O God! A figure on the roof: I swear I see it: looks down so lustful. His skin was burning with an unnamed shame. As he ran he tore off his clothes, which now seemed foreign and frightening. Reaching the crest, he let himself collapse. Heaving heavily he vomited again. His entire body writhing. Twitching with the retching of his stomach, as if the blood vessels of his eyes would pop and his heart explode. Emptying himself through his mouth, his very pores of an immensity and inner sickness. Exorcising it from himself and banishing it to a hidden past.
The madman looked back at the building behind him; still imposing but no longer frightening. Relief.
Naked atop the hill, he turned to face the city which sprawled below. The abandoned industrial area of the town began suddenly, at the bottom of the decline. By the distant hum of traffic he knew that the city was waking and he felt, as he walked into its squinting streets, that he was going somewhere. For the first time.