CW: suicide imagery
Michael looks downward. The New York traffic is crawling like a trail of ants between the high-rises. He wonders again: what would it feel like, that separation from everything? Staring, lights burning spots into the backs of his eyes, he sees it. Eggs, plates, televisions, sculptures, computers, furniture, windowpanes, musical instruments, cars, watermelons, barrels of wine, fishtanks, himself. The fragile things of the world, falling over and over. Smashing, rewinding, reforming like the rusted lawn chair. Falling again. Smashing. He’s seen it in his dreams.