Jean. The street. Players. The world. A stage.

Jean- sauced- ambled on down the street. Waves of lethargy, of angst, had stuck with him for two weeks. But unlike waves, these events flowed. And only flowed.

The lack of an ebb, of some form of release, manifested in his consistently dour visage. The crevices of which- now become stark- began as the hills of all idyll faces- fat, cherubin, and above all else, grotesque. Then, the contours hearkened toward some “unreckonable being.” And now they hearkened back toward that same pre-verbal, unsayable Thing.

Obscenities- and little else- rang out constantly in Jean’s atrophied mind. And in those moments when the tide collapsed; and the dune fences arched their backs near the point of breaking; and the absurdity of defending against the inevitable- of fighting against that which cannot be fought- became present to mind; and the presence of the bridge above the overpass as a diving board into the sea of self-effacement, rather than a causeway, becomes ready-to-hand; even obscenities ceased. All proclivity toward physical and cognitive motion ceased.

And he stopped.


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