The man sat on a bench as if parched by the scene before him, by the sandy dunes that rolled left and right like waves running from land. He wasn’t a very remarkable type: average height, hazel-brown eyes, a bit of facial hair, a shape to him explicating his weathered yet embracing submissiveness. He stood a moment, and sat back down. His legs were exhausted from having walked for so long. It was also from being assailed as if without relent by the heat ubiquitous in the air circumfusing him in every which way, every which nook, exploiting any weakness as it showed itself.
He stood another moment, and sat back down. Similar thoughts and feelings invaded his spirit; this, perhaps, was a peculiarity about the man on the bench. He seemed to comprehend causality, yet behaved in ways which often did not derive their sense from this principle. That is, he often, when reading a book for example, would reread certain pages over and over expecting the words to have changed in some way, expecting the story to deviate in some fashion unknown to him. In this way, he seemed not to keep track of time, or of the numerous amount of times he’d repeat a certain action; instead, memory made itself his measure of events, and so a weak or unclear memory meant there were gaps and lacunae of events missing.
He stood up, one last time, and sat back down. This time he remembered clearly why his walk had been so strenuous: he’d been following a line which, occasionally, gave way to perpendicular tangents pointing to shapes. These shapes, he remembered, took on weird forms with no discernible pattern: the first pair seemed to be composed of a column with a hanging top and an ovular shape, the second pair was composed of another two columns with hanging tops, and so on. Eventually, as he sporadically checked either ones of his sides, he saw a shanty from which jutted a bench; the bench upon which he now found himself.
This man stood to be human, in spite of the fact that before these shapes, before this walk, he remembered nothing. It is quite unthinkable to conceive him as having appeared out of thin, mind you hot, air! But as far as his unsystematic apercu of life went, he did not exist before this first point, before acknowledging the first pair of shapes. This led the man, in quite an unorthodox fashion, to question his origin, but more so, his nature. And it is in doing this that he discovered nothing about himself. Yet, because of it, he now noticed the sandy dunes that rolled left and right like waves running from land before him. In the heat of the sight, he turned – away from the heat, towards the shanty.
There he saw a wooden shaft sodden with long dried paint, and it was an old shaft at that. There is no better abuse than time; aside, perhaps, from the free market. On it were grooves, cusp, as if an ocean of people had swam by and, of the many, a few had stopped by to bite – some places bare single marks, others, sharp marks, and a few others, whole rows of grooves. They each spoke of an individual kind of desperation, the kind you could tag, bar code, all that stuff, but together they spoke only of desperation without identity, like an animal. A few of the shallower indents must have been caused by nails, or skirmishes between the shaft and acute objects.
The shaft held, on either side, a series of equally paint-crippled wood boards, although these only had horizontal deformations that seemed much more unified, if not outright natural. Across the boards on the left you could see the remains of a word that had been painted over, only, the man on the bench did not recognize these symbols nor did he understand the sense of the structure. And as he saw the whole of taking, upon taking a few steps back, he looked down, at his feet. There he wiggled his toes and wondered to himself how it was possible that these pieces, this flesh, what seemed exterior to him could be controlled by him. And that’s when it crossed his mind: where was he? Not so much in regards to his milieu as his himness.
He looked before him, and there he found a shaft sodden with red paint, and it was an old shaft at that. The shaft held, on either side, a series of equally painted white wood boards; horizontal deformations seemed to protrude all over. And to the left, there, in big black characters, he saw the word PEACE. And for a moment he looked away and saw the sandy dunes that rolled left and right like waves running from land before him. Oddly enough, there seemed to be a long line traced, in black, the same black as the bizarre shapes he saw elsewhere. He began to follow this line. He looked up for a moment and saw the sandy dunes that rolled left and right like waves running from land before him. There was also a long line traced in black, same as the black on the shanty – he glanced over his shoulder, and nothing but dunes were to be seen. What was a shanty, anyhow? The idea of the structure did not even make sense. As the thought ran through his mind, one of his toes twitched. He looked down. There it was, a black line, in the sand. He looked up, and there it was, a black line in the blue sky. He tried to go towards this blueness, but to no avail. He looked back down at his feet, wiggled his toes – everything seemed to be in check, and yet, nothing. His will, so it seemed, could no longer get his flesh to move as it wanted it to. He looked ahead, and again, saw the black line in the sand, began to follow it.