In his own shadow, he finds a hiding place. Clawing desperately at its edges, he attempts to pull it tight around himself...hopes the black cloak would pounce on him and devour. Not a trace of him would be left then. Just a figure in misty black, rubbing its paunch contentedly, belching rhythmically...
But it seems as though, the monster never swallows him...it just pushes him to the side of its mouth and keeps him there...and when the celebratory arson begins in the east, the monster spits him out. There he lies, defenceless and weak, the cloak having slipped off from over him, leaving him shivering in his sleep...
The world flashes torches on his face...rudely, mockingly. The stones roll over stealthily to his side of the road and wait to make him stumble. His habits they know well. His comical gait they ape when they gather for their nightly ritual of ale-drinking and merry-making. He walks with his eyes closed..this they know. Thus, he never notices the lean lamp-post striding puposefully across the street, egged on by the enuthusiastic clamours of the stones, pillars and flower-pots, as it posts itself innocuously just where it is sure to collide with him. And their plan succeeds...like always.
His letter-box bears no ruddy roses with shy pink ribbons clinging on to them with the committment of a lover who has been sentenced to indefinite exile, and for whom, these fragile red petals are the only carriers of the agony in his heart. No. His letter-box bears no token of love. It shifts laborously all the way to its owner's door and knocks angrily...a pregnant blue letter-box bursts with irritation as he opens its door. Unpaid electricity bills, letters of warning, rejected resumes...each battle with the other to reach him first, not to be wisked off their feet in a bear hug, but to be torn open and done justice with.
Euthanasia they beg for. And he begs for it too....
he searches for corners to hide in...but realises, that the world is but, round.
