It was when I renounced the world that the insidious became apparent, a warrant for my arrest had been typed that day. The information was already within the offices in the city, rumors were beginning to transpose, I could do nothing.

Somewhere, there was an urge to resist but then I could not. “Let them trample me,” I said.

On the tram, all eyes looked at me, they depended on me for something but I could not insinuate anything. Only silence. It followed me as I disembarked, avoiding the automobiles and then the unusual persistence of eyes. I went faster, moving my legs like centipedes but a new street appeared, then a corner, as unoriginal from the one before it, merging with that around me. The windows at the top were hiding people. I could not even see their forms but they were there, they were always there. Where were they? Not there.

I stumbled, I fell near the sewer hole, I peered down, not even a reflection or a face lifted, not even the night sky or the moon with its perturbed eyes looking at the unsettling affairs of humanity. Someone was shot. A politician. They suspected me at that point. I knew it.

More papers that the clerk would have to type, he wasn’t very interested in the prospect, his desk was littered with heaps, with requisitions. He implored the empty room but there was only a fly within it. A man looked down at me, shaking his head. My life was despondent, at least to him, he said nothing, offered not even a hand nor a fragment of a bone. His coat was black. A smirk upon his face, an old eye, some grey around the brows. Eventually, death.

Soon an empty building which compounds the atmosphere with its sense of implicit hostility.

I ran away, enabling the habits of my feet even further. Further into the ruin.

The papers baffled the clerk at that point, he could not accustom himself to my name. In exactness, it was a difficult name to pronounce. The sound of typewriters nearly blinded me, then they faded from view. A paltry man left a folder upon the desk. A paltry folder left upon the desk by a man. A man and a folder, both paltry in origin, devised solely for each other. They asked me to follow them into a room. A muted room where doors were not apparent.

There were no lampposts at that juncture, no torches above doors or even any candles positioned at open windows. I was lost, decayed, seeking the vagabond who knew how to find the egression. Nothing at all, even fewer things to diminish the memory.

Encountering a corner, I went up the steps, my feet echoed in the silence until the silence was an echo and the echo became silent.

A light at last, further ahead, in the distance which does not distract me. I leave the surrounding of tall buildings, but there is a conglomeration of awkward tracks in the boulevard. I am there at that threshold when the tram crashes into my exposed form of nothingness.

There are numerous papers, all scattering briefly into the darkness.