john's blog

ghost.

i wake up because i feel like somebody is watching me. she is standing away from the foot of my bed with her arms by her side. she does not glow, instead she is revealed in shifting partiality as patterns of light that do not exist move across her. she tells me not to be scared, even though i'm not. she does not know who she is, and now i feel rude for asking. she is here because she likes to listen to the music that plays at night, because she doesn't have much else to do. she asks me if i have ever made love to a ghost, and i'm amazed by her silhouette in the sheets as she slides in next to me, thinking they'd pass right through her. to her question, i kind of laugh ironically. i guess you might say i have. her hair does not sit still, it's like she's underwater. don't joke, she says. death is not an ultimatum. life is like trying to stay awake, and sometimes we slip away before giving up all together. the most important thing to remember is to keep each other awake. i nod at this. do you remember? i open my eyes but she's already gone.

tracks.

three men sit in worn velvet armchairs, still dressed in fluorescent orange jackets and cargo pants crusty with paint. they drink beer and smoke, their conversation is loud enough to make a few others uncomfortable, and their voices are toned by the kind of reckless hostility that makes casual violence play on your mind. everybody else clenches their fists under tables and wonders how they would handle a fight, but the three men drink comfortably, curse bitterly and laugh occasionally.

one of them stands and makes his way to the bar, and the other two go silent. the focus lies with him, and in his absence the bitter violence drains from their interaction. they sit quietly and stare at empty bottles, cheeks hollowed out with worried eyes.

the one leans against the counter and orders more of the same, and while the waitress is busied with the bottle opener he says 'i got diagnosed with cancer today'. she looks up with a beer in hand, and he looks back at her, staring blackly and swaying slightly. then he stretches his lips into a grin and carries the drinks back to the others. they drink.

his friend forces a tone and says 'saw you chatting up that waitress mate, did she seem interested?', while the other friend snorts and puts a cigarette to his lips. the one sits back in his chair and holds up his hand with grease packed fingernails and a scratched silver ring. 'i'm a married man' he says, 'i wouldn't dream of it'. they have been sarcastic all night, it makes acid boil in their guts and their lungs are ragged from forced laughs. 'oh i don't know mate, i figure if the missus is getting a root tonight i reckon you should too'. they all go silent. nobody makes eye contact for a while, of course some things simply can't be made light of. 

a while later he stands up and the others follow suit, swaggering on stiff legs to the door. he stares the waitress down on his way out. 

the roads are empty and washed sickly gold by the streetlights. it's late, and they breathe mist and walk to the train station. with the crossing in sight, he says 'maybe i'll just throw myself in front of a train tonight.' the other two laugh grimly, but when they look up at him he's just staring up towards the crossing, thinking, then he starts to laugh, honest laughter. he turns to look at them. 'it'll be like the fucking great escape!' he starts to whistle the theme, and he picks up the pace. 'it'd be too easy, just lie down and wait.' one of them says 'why would you wanna do that, mate?' he's nervous.

'why would i wanna do that? what the fuck else am i going to do? wait for the cancer to do it for me? go home and sort out my divorce? mate, i'm done. i want out now, like this.' his voice is bright, the most like himself he's sounded all night. he laughs again. they keep walking. his mood, still infectious, spreads to his friends, and they warm to the idea of helping him die. more cigarettes, and they are all laughing with him. 

when they reach the crossing, they stop and wait. even though they are quiet, he still smiles. 'sure about this one, mate?' reality is shimmering in the distance, testing its claws against the fabric of alcohol and bravado. 'never been more sure of anything in my life.' in the distance comes the resounding clatter and cry of a train. 'that's me!' last handshakes, slaps on the back. he steps onto the tracks, stumbling on the rocks before settling down between the rails, one running beneath his knees and the other behind his back. he makes a show of getting comfortable, lights another cigarette. one last thumbs up and a grin, then he is illuminated. 

the train grinds him against stones and sends him spinning in different directions across the asphalt before he tumbles to a stop. they stand there, staring at him. his body settles and is still, his open wounds are steaming in the cold air. they start to walk the other way.

'did you see how he flinched at the last second?' one asks quietly.

'yeah, i did...'

walking stoner meets happy family.

at two in the morning, getting home on foot. eyes are very red, bushfire moons.

strangers converge on me at intersection, reveal familiar faces.

shrugging away as he reaches out to pat me on the shoulder, walking again.

'are you sure you'll get home alright?'

'are you?'

snakeskin.

driving at night on main roads with no police everybody starts to speed. they have these tense little races with each other, overtaking at ninety kilometers an hour in an eighty zone. 

walking at night there is a compulsion to appear slightly dangerous, even though dangerous looking people are the ones you're hoping not to meet. 

ever since a child in a cardboard box was crushed by a truck, people are careful to swerve around rubbish they see on the road. but nobody ever gets out to check if there is an infant wrapped in trash in the middle of the street.

do only so much as to appear aware.

the promise is that you're the only one pretending. that secretly in a world of dropped pretenses you'd come out on top. shed your snakeskin and reveal something older and stronger than your appearance might suggest.

i could fuck your girlfriend if i decided to. beat you in a fight. drive faster than you in an eighty zone. the promise is made to yourself that you're only playing along. that if astrology came under serious attack you could reassert yourself as the centre of the universe.

the promise is that action is not necessary as long as the thought is maintained. no need to exercise a power you're sure of. convince yourself that a life of quiet arrogance is justified because even though you never proved it, you're an individual of potential.

society is a laboratory to examine the functionality of compassion, promise. solipsism is ready and waiting in the wings, promise. you are complete in and of yourself. promise.

thought belies honesty, your rationale meticulously engineers systems of superiority to all contenders without ever necessitating conflict. 

maintain one's individuality in all cases. self-preservation hinders humility. i am convinced i will destroy this world before it destroys me, but i never clench my fists.

why put weakness to the test?

i think therefore i'm not.

spider.

when i was a little kid somebody showed me the skin that a tarantula had shed. offered to let me hold it. i didn't because i was too scared that the husk would come alive in my hand and bite my wrist.

half awake one morning i drank a cup of coffee in bed, and imagined the body of a huntsman floating to the top and sinking its fangs into my upper lip. i lay back in bed and dreamt intensely for another twenty minutes before i got up and got ready for school.

the earliest nightmare i can remember is of me in the park near my grandparent's house, except the grass is dotted with rock pools with deep blue water in them. a spider the size of me climbs out of one of the pools and chases me across the park. i am running from it, whenever i turn around it is just a mass of legs moving. periodically it drops into one of the pools and i wait. then it erupts from a pool next to me and i have to run again, barely keeping ahead of it.

when i'm stressed i sometimes dream about massive numbers of spiders, infestations. in one of them i am waiting in a checkout queue at a supermarket and i look back to see all the aisles are covered in web, and gradually, spiders start to crawl out from between the items on the shelves. some of them are huge. in the most recent one i was told to wash the dishes and i found the sink was filthy and filled with web. i tried to clean some of the dishes but every time i moved something i disturbed spiders. big bloated ones the color of rotted fruit and glossy black ones with prominent fangs. the centre piece of the dream was my turning over a plate to reveal a tarantula the length of my forearm, moving slowly. these dreams aren't nightmares, i'm never afraid in these dreams. the pervasive emotion is always dread and rising panic.

berardino.

when i was a kid i borrowed one of those choose your path horror stories from the library at school. my nonno picked me up that day and took my brother and i to glenferrie road, because my brother had his grading for taekwondo. while he was doing it i sat in a cafe with nonno and i read this little book, except i made a point of folding down every page where you made a choice and i kept coming back to them so by the end of the hour i had exhausted every possibility the book had to offer. nonno finished his coffee and waited. i think he thought it was funny how i kept flipping backwards and forwards in the book.

a few years earlier than that i took a day off school and i went to nonna and nonno's house for the day, driving there i told my mum about how i didn't really understand my math homework. she said i should ask nonno because he used to be really good at math. i showed it to him that day and he drew this pyramid of numbers and sort of explained it to me, but it didn't make sense and he couldn't seem to get what he was saying straight and he got frustrated and i think i smiled politely and put the homework away. later that day i was sitting reading and he saw me and spoke to me in italian for a long time, trying to explain something to me. nonna translated, he was asking me to read aloud to him, he used to read aloud to himself when he was a kid in italy. he really wanted to hear me read and he asked a few times but i was embarrassed and i didn't. at the start of this year in methods my teacher drew that same pyramid of numbers on the board, pascal's triangle.

a few years after the cafe i was going to italy with nonno and we were in heathrow airport, our plane was delayed. we sat waiting, and in four hours i read a whole book. nonno sat next to me, and every fifteen minutes or so he would ask me what was going on, and i told him not to worry and kept reading. four hours. i read a book front to back, and he kept coming back to the same question, what was going on. he even got up a few times because he wanted to ask people or get food but i made him sit and wait because i didn't know when the plane would be ready and i was paranoid that we'd miss it.

in italy we stayed with nonno's family, all people who knew me from when i was a baby and loved me for it, i didn't know them. i wasn't sure how i was related to them. who i think was nonno's brother took us to a cemetery. it was a beautiful place. you couldn't see the sky for all the trees but the sun still kept you warm. you couldn't hear the road outside. nonno was led on a tour of the graves of all the relatives he'd forgotten were dead. he cried at every one. there were maybe more than ten, fifteen. some were tombs with couples, whole families. nonno's brother osvaldo spoke some english and he kept encouraging me to take photos of nonno at each site, so he'd remember. even nonno told me to a few times. so every time he found out somebody he loved was dead, he'd cry for a while and curse god, then look at the camera and try to smile a bit with tears on his cheeks. in some of the shots you can catch a bit of me, reflected in the marble with the camera over my eye. between graves nonno had this look in his eye, miserable anticipation, like maybe he was trying to remember all of the people he grew up with and wondering whose death was going to find him next, though they'd found him all before in the lives he'd forgotten. it's only now that i realise how much respect i have for him, for taking so much bad news in one go. these were landmarks for grief that come every few years for most, and here was nonno experiencing a near lifetime of loss in one day. i think he felt ashamed too, ashamed that he'd forgotten so much death.

a few days later nonno took me to see a friend of his who'd only recently had a stroke. he was lying in a huge white hospital bed with a shiny metal skeleton that sat in the middle of a traditional old house. his wife was feeding him baby food, she had these big tired eyes. nonno saw him and sat with him, his friend couldn't speak, but he recognised nonno a little bit i think. nonno held his hand and was friendly to the wife and smiled and asked how he was in broken italian and by the end he was even making jokes, play fighting with the guy in the hospital bed. the guy who couldn't talk ended up smiling a little. i remember the whole house made my skin crawl and i kept quiet. nonno only cried when we left the house. 

it's been a few years since the trip to italy but every now and then i still start and remember how i sat reading. i want to apologise to nonno for ignoring him but he wouldn't know what i was talking about. nonno had his stroke before i was born, i've never met the man that my mum tells me about, who he 'used' to be. but to say that i've only known the shadow of nonno doesn't feel right.

i still come back to the same moments in my life, reading while nonno waited, the cemetery, pascal's triangle. i want to say sorry. i want my sins forgiven rather than forgotten, immortalised by transience. the wrongs i've done to him in his past lives, like the deaths of his loved ones that he has to be reminded of. i can't end this. his name is berardino.

make yourself at home.

i subscribed on wednesday. 

-

two days later the first parcel arrived. i came home from work and carried it to my kitchen table. 

the kettle was boiling as i tore it open. contents are a box (glossy white cardboard, blue corporate insignia). i used my car keys to pick off the tape sealing it shut. 

i'm reading the brochure (white glossy paper, corporate insignia in blue on front page, blue text on white background) as i make a cup of coffee, the box is still sitting open behind me on the table.

set in a protective foam mould (white) is a small pill bottle (blue translucent plastic, white cap, glossy white label featuring corporate insignia, blue) and an opaque plastic orb (white with blue corporate insignia) with an inset electrical plug compatible with standard domestic power points. 

i skim the last of the brochure as i take a seat at the table again, setting my coffee down on a coaster.

i lift the pills and the orb out of their mould, and set them carefully to one side. taking a sip of coffee i lift the mould out of the box. at the bottom there are more brochures with additional information, technical support, and a catalogue of other products and extension packs available or soon to be released on the domestic market. 

i take two of the pills (white with glossy sugar flavored coating, complete with corporate insignia printed meticulously on each capsule) with coffee and then carry the orb through to the bedroom and plug it into the wall. a light (blue) blinks twice through the white plastic shell and i slip off my work clothes (stale with sweat and creased from a day of sitting down) and climb into bed, as recommended for optimum initiation in the chapter on initiation protocol.

-

at first the humming of the orb is barely audible. i lie on my side and watch the numbers count upwards on my digital clock (compact silver model with red light emitting diode display), slowly becoming conscious of the humming getting louder.

it takes forty three minutes and i'm slowly wondering if there is something wrong, as the humming gives way slightly to a percussive clicking and whirring. i roll over onto my back and try to lift myself out of bed to inspect the orb but out of nowhere i am the dizziest i have ever felt.

i don't know how long it took me to turn my head far enough to look at the clock again, every twitch of my neck or flicker of my eye sent me spinning and falling in place with sickening intensity (the sensation of existence without physical reference and perpetual motion, only the sight of the clock to reassure me of gravity and inertia). i was terrified.

the countless clicks and whirs had long since grown and distorted into a singular churning tone (imagine the sound of a factory floor or a primitive boiler room complete with pistons and gears) that became wavelike (intensity recedes and then returns louder than before, like the tide crawling up a beach).

i lay sweating for hours (i think).

the orb sat and screamed (imagine a computer's imitation of a human being in pain), bellowing and shaking (i could distinguish the faint sound of the plastic clattering against the plaster wall, as if struggling to break free of the powerpoint). 

the source of the sound had shifted without my noticing (so preoccupied, was i) and it took me some time to realise that the orb position no longer had any bearing on the sound (my pillows hummed, my sheets roared, the ceiling and the walls and the floor all became conduits of the orb).

at some point i went profoundly blind, not even blackness. a complete loss of even the idea of visual sensation (as if i had been blind since birth). of course it seems impossible now, but i was so consumed by the torture of the sound that i hardly noticed my gradual loss of sight until the last moment when i realised the clock had vanished (so difficult to communicate to you in full the notion of completely losing a sense, that not only could i not see the clock i did not know what the clock looked like or what it was to look like anything or what it was to look. a most horrible revelation) and immediately i was utterly lost in the agonizing tempest of placeless being.

the noise escalated to untold volumes (at this point a singular tone that seemed to possess every possible pitch from impossibly high whines through to screeches and middling to grinds and unending groans and then descending into the deepest of throbs and roars that shook my guts and made me sick) and it never stopped even. 

the ordeal worsened as my other senses began to disintegrate in much the way my sight did.

i could no longer smell my own sweat (sour, and pouring down from my forehead and under my arms) and as the cacophony consumed me the concept of smell became meaningless. the same went for taste as the bile that had gathered in my mouth (acidic and thick) drifted out of consciousness and all my memories of food became textures.

-

(it is an amazing thing to note the composition of our memories. every moment of our lives we fall back on a personal tissue of knowledge and experience, a quilt from which we derive meaning and significance. this relationship between memory and meaning leads us to a false conclusion; the notion that our memory consists fundamentally of raw meaning which we can use as a reference when dealing with day to day experience. on closer inspection, we recognise the flaw. the fabric of memory is woven of the five senses, five threads in a tapestry of exquisite complexity... but there is no sixth thread. there is no direct, transcendental experience of inherent meaning. if you disagree, try to imagine language without imagining the sound of the vowels, the shapes of the alphabet, the feel of the words as you form them in your mouth. the concept of meaning is illusory when examined microscopically, it is merely a rapid fire association between countless sensory images that forms a coherent image at a distance.)

-

touch was the last to go (the sheets and the pillow and the prickle of sweat on my skin all faded) and i was completely lost to sound, consciousness sacrificed to the gnashing of the orb (whose din had grown more and more human, composed mostly of snatches of screams and cries and senseless chatter).

i must have fallen asleep some time after that.

-

i was woken by the sound of the sun shining through my window.

it was early morning and i could not quite hear the traffic or my kettle rattling over the sound of birds singing.

my bathroom tiles hummed.

i stirred my coffee for perhaps a full three minutes or so, listening to the chime every time the spoon twinkled against the mug.

i lay in bed until afternoon, turning over frequently for the velvet tones of my bedspread's shifting.

at around one i walked into the kitchen smiling faintly. this was delicious.

i tipped the extra papers out of the box onto the table, listened to them fluttering softly.

i walked out of my front door and through the yard to where the bin stood near the street, threw out the box.

(it was with a note of displeasure which gave rise to mild, rising panic that i noticed that the indescribable warmth that had swaddled me all morning had faded somewhat as i left the confines of my house, and the birdsong was now indistinct, blended with the grey rush of traffic and the sound of distant industry).

i walked back to my house faster than i had walked away from it, and slammed the door behind me.

i sensed my own alarm which, after a morning of dull satisfaction, felt like the memory of a bad dream.

turning on the radio to calm myself down, i was overjoyed to hear the mellow tones and melodies of the radio announcers' voices, though i found it difficult to make out exactly what they were saying.

-

i stopped going to work.

a few days later i ran out of food and had to drive to the shops (everything beyond the door hollow and cold, as if life had lost its marrow).

i lay around the house running my hands over surfaces (which resonate) or playing albums.

my boss called me personally and threatened to fire me.

-

i woke early and made toast, reading one of the brochures as i packed my briefcase and shuffled out the front door, picturing the orb in my bedroom, telling myself it would be there when i got back.

sitting in my office i felt heavy. i made a point of clattering my pens on my glass desk, typing harder than necessary, clearing my throat or rubbing my feet on the carpet. everything lacked clarity. other sounds got in the way. nothing was special (the sense that every single sound i experienced was unique, beautifully crafted and significant to me) anymore. i felt tired. the sky was grey.

i got caught in a traffic jam driving home and a headache from the storm drumming on the roof of my car.

it was gone as soon as i stepped through the front door and i couldn't stop smiling at the sound of the drops and the water cascading from overflowing gutters, catching some sun as it fell. 

-

it took me a week to save up enough. i ordered it at work on the computer.

it came in the mail two days later, same packaging (only smaller).

i took it out to the car and unplugged my stereo to make room for it.

driving to work made me giddy, the car was reverberant with the placid thunder of the engine, and i checked the rear view mirror constantly to see the little white orb sitting neatly, reflected in the back window. 

when i got to my office my boss walked past and found me plugging it into the point beneath my desk. i looked up and he shook his head, telling me to unplug it. not in the office, he said. he was pointing with his thumb out the door, he didn't want to see it again.

i sat in quiet fury all through the morning, and he would periodically peek his head through my door to see if the orb was still sitting, silent, on my desk.

-

viva.

i'd wandered past the shops for some of the morning, looking into the windows, feeling people brush past me. i went into the pharmacy through the sliding glass doors past larger than life testimonials of dieters and personal trainers. the girl at the counter selling cough lollies and chewing gum didn't look up from her magazine as i made my way along the glossy wooden path that wound awkwardly through the dirty carpet towards the second counter at the back of the stop where drugs are sold.

i unzipped the pouch strapped around my waist underneath my sweater and dug past tissues and receipts to produce my prescription, the woman behind the counter stifled her impatience and took a moment to make sense of my doctor's handwriting. she told me fifteen minutes and turned away. i walked out the way i came, all the bottles and boxes of hair dye and nail polish smiled at me under the fluorescent lights but the magazine girl kept reading.

i turned left outside the pharmacy and passed a lingerie shop with mannequins and kept walking. there was a bookshop which i thought about going into but i didn't. i remember i used to read a lot but i don't remember when i stopped. i still haven't read all the books on my shelves, and i never know where to start in places like these. i can't seem to justify choosing one book over any of the others. i look at the thickness of a book and i think this will take me a week or three weeks or a few months to read, and i can't seem to bring myself to buy it anymore. i read slower these days, too. i find i lose track of myself so easily...

i sat down in the bakery next door, i waited for a while looking at the sun coming through the glass front of the shop. it was warm on my hands and my face, but i could not feel it on my arms through my jumper. a waitress came and took my order and i sat watching people walking backwards and forwards and in and out of the shop. i examined a purple lesion i hadn't noticed before on the back of my hand. i stretched my legs out slightly, they were sore and stiff from the walking. i lifted my feet to lock my knees and found i ould only hold them there for a few seconds before my muscles shuddered and gave way.

a girl came with a cup of coffee which jittered in its saucer as i reached up to accept it and lowered it to the table. i took two sugars from the bowl with a trembling spoon. stirring, i watched as a light rain swept onto the road, nothing more than a fine drizzle, like sand scattered to the wind and falling to earth. the cars and the air suddenly dazzled and shone and were hard to look at.

i lifted my cup to take a sip and realised my coffee was finished. the rain had passed outside and dim clouds had replaced the sun. looking around i saw i didn't recognise anybody in the bakery. i suddenly felt very scared, the dregs of my coffee were cold and my back hurt as if i had been sitting for a long time. i missed home and i got up and payed for my coffee before walking outside. the air was colder and it was approaching midday, i waited on an uncomfortable bench watching a newspaper stir and flutter across the pavement. later a tram arrived and i got on board and found a seat next to a window.

on the tram there was a mother with three kids. the youngest was asleep, cradled in the woman's lap and beathing softly. the next was a little boy who ran up and down the tram tripping as it sped up and slowed and turned corners. he would squeal with joy as he tumbled to his knees and as he clambered back to his feet he would shout happily and incoherently at the passengers before running off. the third child looked a few years older than the boy, a daughter in a pink dress with a plastic dolly and hair in a neat ponytail. she sat next to her mother and affected a prim expression of annoyance and disapproval at her brother's antics.

the tram reached the top of the street and peeled away down a main road and shops gave way to houses. i saw, piled on a nature strip, a set of old speakers and a record player, all recently soaked by the rain. i watched the orthodox jews walking in groups. i stood and pulled the cord above my head and held on as the tram slowed to a stop. i made my way unsteadily down the steps and walked off the road and down the street, three houses down to my apartment block. i fumbled for my key and got inside.

my living room was quiet. i put the kettle on and settled into my arm chair. i could hear my breathing and the rising tone of the water bubbling. i thought about the warmth of the bakery, the bustle of the street. i thought about lingerie. my book shelf stood against the wall, seeming to cast a shadow. the kettle peaked and clicked off. i remembered my prescription at the pharmacy.

getting up, i put on an extra jumper and made my way to the door.

earth conclusion (eye witness accounts of the end of the world).

[the last thing i saw was a flock of sparrows sitting in a tree. feeling gravity shudder and swirl about them, they took flight with the spirals of golden autumn leaves, wings beating in the thinning atmosphere. and their last cries came to me distant and frail as they flew forever upwards into the starry sky.]

[the last thing i saw was a fountain that sent sparkling spheres of water arcing and shattering like fat rain drops on the stone heads of cherubs. and gradually, miraculously, the rain ceased beating the statues' heads and i swear i saw them turn to watch in curious awe as the crystalline orbs started to ascend.]

[the last thing i saw were the mannequins in a deserted department store. feeling their clothing grow weightless, their feet drifted from the stained carpet, wooden bodies making hollow connections, they waltzed and courted one another as they rose like angels to heaven.]

[the last thing i saw was an official announcement on television. an eminent scientist explaining the phenomena and the catastrophe to the world, laughing between his tears with pens and paper floating about him. and before the power cut out he was crying 'my god, isn't it wonderful?'.]

 

roadkill.

so, it was last night, i don't know about you, but my area had a blackout. i'm driving with my family in the car, all the streetlights are out, the houses, everything is pitch black, except for two steady streams of light, one white, the other red, the lights on the cars going down the road. all of a sudden, up ahead, cars start swerving left and right, pulling into the opposite lane. my mum starts telling me to slow down slow down my dad's saying look out my brothers want to know what's happening and i'm starting to lean on the breaks with my heart pumping faster and faster and the steady stream of red is breaking the way a river parts around a rock. finally, the car ahead pulls over and i'm next in line.

for a split second time stops, and sitting in front of me in the blindness of my headlights is a possum, crouched on the road, staring right into the windshield with one black eye. for a while i can only stare as it sits down, looking at me, it's got blood and saliva slipping from its broken jaw, and worse still, i can see deep red curtains of blood falling from its eyes, like it's crying.

i pull over to the side of the road and stay with the car while my family piles out to go save it. i'm sitting there watching the whole scene unfold in the rear view mirror. the cars have stopped moving for a while, and the headlights have created this great kind of circle of light amidst this enormous blackness, as if this is the only moment in that exists in the whole world. everyone's starting to gather around it, they're all staring with their hands on their mouths the way you do.

but the possum doesn't move. it still sits there, bleeding gently onto the road, staring straight ahead, body hunched forward, as if it's still waiting to be hit. and i guess that's the point of this story, just that image. this broken, dying possum, sitting with its missing eye and its trembling body, still waiting for the car to hit it, even as it disappears as two points of red into the blackness.