Awakening to a silence so full that it condenses on the square glass panes, that it pushes my breath back down my throat, that it edges the light of dawn back over the horizon.
I wake and lift my hands to see if they are still there. Strange little wriggling creatures. Sometimes the absurdity of "I" and "me" is simply obvious. These little threads of nerve running from my fingers to my brain don't make my hands mine. They don't make my brain mine, either. Rented space. Capricious landlord. Uncertain tenure.
Touch the glass. A faint electrical iciness meets the pads of my fingers.
I'm leaving fingerprints. Is that a problem? Have I killed someone? Is there a body I need to dispose of?
It all ends at an empty house, frozen air, broken shadows.
I might take to composing epitaphs for myself, but assuming epitaph readers is assuming far too much. You have used me for what use can be made of me. What can there be to say after that? This useless husk, spinning in the eddy, is neither here nor there. Zhuang Zi aspired to be useless, but I, I have accomplished it. Like Tom Sawyer leaving a bolster in the empty bed, I have left simulacra scattered across this little world, hollow spider-shells to represent me, fragile exoskeletons light enough to float. I me me mine.