Somebody hit a cat on 1700 South Street. They bothered to pick the bloody carcass up, set it down on a cardboard box, and cover it with their coat. But they apparently didn’t manage to move it out of the middle of the street or call the city to clean it up.
He lay there, lay there, like he was in the womb at first, steeped in his own disorientation and confusion. Finally, realizing that he was cold, he stood up quickly, resolutely, as though he had suddenly regained some part of himself. He hadn’t. On his feet, all reason left him again, and he was unable to move, unable to focus, unable to think, teetering in the middle of an empty room. He stood, perhaps for an hour, perhaps for a day. He didn’t know and didn’t think about it, and the lights didn’t change or go off. Everything remained as it was, static and useless.”