For a man to prepare for death, he must draw a circle around his life. The larger the circle is, the more miserable he is. Over decades, he learns to rein in the circle, choke it down to a small radius. A radius not even as long as the distance from his shoulder to his arm. That silly, burgermeister distance. Then much smaller than that. The radius of his eye to his chin, then the radius of an eyelash, then a personal geometry of pain emaciated down to the radius of a single hair on that one eyelash. On certain days, if no one speaks, he can almost convince himself he is an amoeba. Certainly on those extremely quiet days he feels like an amoeba lit by a flashlight. He feels pellucid.
He is now looking down one single hair of one of his eyelashes, like looking down a wife, and the other eye is squinted shut. This might as well be the first microscope ever in existence. The goofy ass of a man looking down the eyelash might as well be Leeuwenhoek. I bet he was a goofy ass of a man, anyway.
That narrow line of sight on that airstrip of the eyelash hair is the full extent of this man’s new sphere of existence. The other eye is tortured shut like the half of consciousness that is pure ice cream, that molten planetary core of liquid ice cream, constantly agitated by the neutrinos in the agitator-cogitator (like a Versailles-size pool of chocolate in sacred, liquid form, tortured by giant stainless steel mixers constantly churning everything, apocalyptic, Aztec bumper cars) that target the cerebral, planetary core of ice cream. The otherness of mind with which we catch the prettiness of pretty women or pretty men as they float past us mostly pretty ectoplasm racing for a bank. That thing.
He is looking down one hair of one of his eyelashes, the eye that is open. He begins wailing, apologizing to some sense of Otherness, maybe not a god this time, wailing at it, apologizing to it, that he even needs a single eye, a single hair on that single eyelash to look down like looking down the sight of a gun. To take off from this like the mobile doom that is a doomed airplane. To exist. And that it feels the need to even exist. That it feels a joy. With or without a sight on its gun, its eyelash. The disembodied feeling of joy itself. Wailing and apologizing for that too. That it enjoys being an animal so much and losing time the way that animals do and apparently love to do.