And the stars screamed in terror at the unfolding numbness of ONE SINGLE PERSON'S inevitability. His life stood as a metaphor for the great cosmic "delete" key, an aphoristic anachronism emanating from the very time of which it was outside. He spoke words like girders with a cast-iron CAPS LOCK and assembled a decadent artifice of ambiguity, but was not satisfied. His mind was a moire burst of superimposed grids, and the unfortunate comprehensibility of his artifice was endlessly frustrating. The no-man's land of indignant disinterested dismissal was his own personal hell. He grasped toward the Tantalizing heavens of awe-struck incomprehensibility, and occasionally longed for the simple Earth of easily-digested colloquialism, but to no avail. Yet the stars still quivered to behold him--their cold light was in fact only his reflection, and in his frustrations their own imminent disintegration was mirrored. Things moved slowly. Beneath the leer of the clock, his zombified fingertips trembled in indecision. His mind was an echo- chamber filled with a symphony of pin-drops: the space suggested greatness, but a tiny army of diminuitives held it under siege. He presumed that his qi had collapsed into a tiny ball in his abdomen, his meridians scarcely more than dusty arroyos, as his extremeties felt like dry-rotted balsa wood hung from the frayed puppet-strings of his lugubrious thoughts.