It was a fine day. Samuel laid upon the broad of his back (if it could be called such a thing – he was razor thin and could be better described as all edge), his arms by his side, his right leg straight, his left kinked at the knee. He closed his eyes and smiled, blissfully. Light from a small aperture in the otherwise unbroken overcast beamed upon his wan face as he dreamed his own death. It was wonderful, so final and lucid. He would crawl back into the earth from whence he came, at last to sleep and not awaken. The brown ground around him was littered with needles, used up and discarded. He felt with his hand a patch of gritty dirt, involuntarily grasping at it but unable to secure any. His mind raced a thousand miles a second, propelling him forward. He would at length not slow down but come to a full stop, his right leg kinking like his left, his body rolling to its side, wadded up like a crumpled draft. The lighted aperture would close or move on and he would lay motionless until forever.
It was a fine day.