A clock ticks inside Steven’s mind; Water dripping from a faucet; A hundred faucets, pulsing strange oily colors across his vision. He means to say, “TURN OFF THE FUCKING SINK,” but he really says nothing at all. He has no vocal chords. No tongue. No feet. No Hands. Some skin. No eyes. No ears. In his head, his voice is gravelly and thick, almost German, but that is only in his head.

The world is black and silent. Only, when Maria visits—he hopes its Maria-- wouldn’t she come?--to sit beside the bed. With her red fingernails she pets his head. The sensation is beyond drug-enhanced orgasm. It is beyond color. Blissful radiation. And when she stops, he counts to five, because sometimes she only stops for a moment.

One. By how often she visits, he counts the days, but the faucets confuse him. Two. The inanity subtracts and multiplies moments, and time ceases, and zips around like a honey bee. Three. This was the beginning of the world, he thinks: A man with no body; an idea that floats in the darkness of space with no stars, and no moon to cast across midnight lawns; before the ocean. Four. And God said, "let there be light," and the light spun into existence, and all men kissed Maria’s lips. And how good it felt--to taste blood, and smell gasoline. Five.

He’d beg for death had he lips. He’d write a fucking note had he hands. He prays to God for mercy, and for Maria’s return, tomorrow.