Outside things are going to happen.
Stars will appear like blinking or the weight of the world, funneling down to
the face and the skin of a dying man, to the Other watching him unwatching the
world. And the blackness that becomes the world will be a part of something
bigger. Something with weight of its own. And the Other will smile if his face
allows it. He has no face. He cannot smile. But inside, inside he will stretch
and yawn his unmoving lips into the mask of a smile and will feel good about
the black and oily stubble of the earth, the way the world has spun out of
itself.
This will be the death of a man.
This will be the story of a man dying. This will be the story of that, how the
death comes, how the stars sink into a canvas that is his eyelids, his Other
watching, himself and the bed he dies in.