Babbling babbling in a dizzying array of inchoate sound, he did not understand. Everyone spun, a mystery of covalent dance. His relative stillness stood out like a black thumb, swollen, distorted, malfunctioning.
Navigation consisted of ruthless lines and hard angles. Swirling crowds effortlessly parted before him, objects overlapping in path but impossible in collision.
Their gravity would not touch him; only his dying self-impetus drove him. A stranger in a sea of familiars, the spectator saw but could never know.
Did he come from the future? Was he meant for clean, modern, parallel lines?
Was he rather, a vestigial remnant of imperatives long past? A straight line to lonely slaughter and warm blood and red meat?