I look back at my life and there is this moment where I gaze at my hand which has become strangely detached from me, and wonder what it would feel like if I touched it underneath. My hand is gross and deformed, like a bulbous root, dark and nebulous, and fuzzy at the edges. I close my eyes and an image appears, it is of a mirror in which I see myself: arm outstretched, looking at my hand: a normal hand. I close my hand in a fist, admiring the strength of the tendons, the muscles in my hands, the fine bone structure. It is clear to me that I am very familiar with this action.
Then it is midday and I am at the theatre again, selling tickets outside. I am uttering some sing-song phrase repeatedly, but people continue to walk straight past me. One of the skateboarders stop. He wants a ticket for free. He doesn't look well, his eyelids are flaky and his skin is bleached pink and dry. His friend laughs, a girl who looks as ill as he. They offer me a ride to the tube station and I accept - I've had enough. On the way she shows me the puppy in her bag. Its tail moves but its eyes have a glazed look that tells me it is dying, like its owner. The girl offers to swap the puppy for a ticket but I refuse, giving her one anyway. And one for the boy. The tube station is crowded. I tell my companions to take good care of themselves and go to the gates without looking back.
As the image dissolves I struggle to adjust myself. I touch my face, but the sensation is too vapid and soft to stabilise my perceptions, and when I try to retrieve my thought images I find that I can't remember them.
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