He didn't get the nod, or probably didn't, it's kind of hard to tell-- but he's pretty sure he didn't get it. He moved along the sides of the floor anyways, daring for once to inhabit a space. Somehow he did it, dared to carve out a place in a room, to keep it open like a wound; scarification. His mind went blank, his body given to convulsion and whatever else may have staked a claim.

He knew it wasn't really though. He wasn't there in even the most abstract sense. Every moment he's a hologram, some clumsy memory from the future; living life as merely something to be reflected upon; living as something to be regretted.

He's not there, don't try to touch him. He thinks about wearing a signs; a sandwich board or barbed wire, just to show how serious he is. Don't Touch Him. He's really that serious. He's really that frightened. He's not really real, but he's both of these things.

In any case, he flickers. His guts spill in a lightning bolt flash, a short circuit. For an instant, he's present. I'm present.
Then he's gone.

Now I'm gone.

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