He wakes to find that the room is drowning. Furniture floats like wreckage. Beneath him, the bed sinks away.
Somehow he struggles out of it, reaches for a chair. But the chair capsizes under his weight, and he flounders his way over to the table instead, its flat hardwood surface placid as a raft in the morning light. Clinging to it with both hands, his head barely above its surface, he wonders if he has the strenght to make it to the door. He doesn't dare risk it.
Again and again his chin slips from the edge of the table, plunging him into the emptiness below. He can feel his strength failing him, he can feel his nightclothes dragging him down. For hours he battles against the room, hoping someone will hear him, hoping someone will come. Then, exhausted, he releases his hold on the table and slips gently under. The last thing he sees are a his tennis shoes, lying submerged on the floor, laces floating.
Three days later they find him, drowned, his body washed up by the door.