The truth is, disheartening as it may be, tomorrow's headlines will tell of another shadow forever lost to daylight. And that same headline, it pains me to relate, will be my epitaph. This is hardly a loss on a par with the Lennon's or Cobain's or Churchill's of the world. Merely one less blurred mass of inconsistencies for a CCTV camera to scan over in a shopping precinct, a theatre ticket sold to another pseudo-intellectual, a seat in a restaurant for another pair of cheeks to inhabit, a census statistic handed on to someone else, a lost vote picked up from the gutter by a thousand fingers. Who will take care of the children I never had a chance to father? Who will impregnate the wife I never met?
A rat nibbling at my exposed and mutilated innards went some way towards convincing me to move, to leave the scene of this dastardly crime, enjoying the comparative freedom my situation brings. The be-suited civil servant who runs from this spot just after dawn will be severely penalised for such actions. I imagine the sight of a clean-shaven, neatly groomed yet unmistakably torn asunder body will be too much for him to take, with his mindful of memos and statistics and transfers and the unwelcome, stagnant echo of the previous evenings revelries.
It is quite something for one to raise ones arm and see that ones arm remains undoubtedly limp on the pavement. Yet the sensations are all accurate; that pre-natural certainty of elevation, that unquestioning faith that ones appendages are doing just as instructed. My arm is raised, and yet it is not. Blood clots form black, distasteful assemblages in the valleys between my fingers, and yet my hand feels clean, like the skin has been replaced with a layer of cling-film so thin that a mild sneeze would be enough to tear it asunder. Rain falls into the minute void of my pupils, and yet I feel no stinging, no blurred vision, even. The eye that was gouged from its socket and relieved of its position to nestle a little further down my cheek, is functioning beyond all reasonable expectations. Not only can I see my own listless and bloody corpse just below me, but if I raise my head slightly, I can see on past the end of this street, and onto the next. Further down along the red-bricked houses I trundle, my vision carried on the back of some celestial pigeon, allowing me to glimpse into each and every one of the windows before me, and to know the faces of those within, and to know the things that go deeper than the particles spread across the bone.