The Tangle from the heart of the universe

He felt useless, elfin;
like a child all over again. Then maybe...he'd appreciate an undoing. He was lunging on that animal-skin couch where the material turns different shades depending which way you swept your frictioned hand, watching his modern morning cartoons before Wintersbane had come along switches to the old 1980s feature of things he doesn't want to acknowledge. 

He whispers the name of Astraeus, but from the physical and mental undoings he'd underwent that gloaming he might as well been mistaken.
(i don't know you, i don't! i don't!)
And so strides step afore of the gelid 'goyle, poised and seething and frothing with unbidden melancholy, “Who gave you my name?”