It is late afternoon, some anonymous corner with predictable pavement--the stains of dead and dying things, old cigarettes, the concrete upturned and busted, returning to bits of lime and rock. The maddening clack and clop of endless feet, smells of soured beer and carbon monoxide spilling from the sea of cabs and buses. He is here, invisible again.

A lost day among many lost days, he awakes and finds you gone. He wanted to look for you then, but couldn't stop retching and couldn't stop the pounding in his head. Something like fear rises in his mind and he tries to stand and walk. With every step towards the door the ground rushes and sloshes like an ocean and he staggers and tumbles to the floor. He surrenders and begins to wail, his great ragged sobs pressed against the coarse carpet. Another emptiness, another thing gone, the last good thing. It is like the death of him. He cries and cries until the ground is wet with his tears, this unsteady floor becoming a sea to drown in. There is nothing and nothing at its bottom, the fall endless.

He has not moved from this spot for days. He becomes again like this place--like the sidewalk, the buildings, a record of those come and gone.