You look out your window and see nothing. There is nothing there except the darkness and the earth. You gaze into the vast nothingness and realize that you are alone. The thought does not disturb you. You are not bothered by the nothingness or the dark, but you are bothered that there are so many weeds in your garden. Why are there so many weeds in your garden?
As you go to make your breakfast, you notice that someone has already made toast, and that the air smells of eggs. You are allergic to eggs; you eat the toast. Nobody lives here except you. The toast is delicious, except that it could use a little jam. You have always hated jam.
The neighbor sees you and waves, but he is not waving at you. He is merely waving. You wave as well, but he does not seem to see. You are going to be late. If you are alone, where did your neighbor come from? You are disturbed, again by the garden, and also by the dog your neighbor is walking. It has too many heads, you think. Or too few? You were always so confused about these things.
You are hit by a car as you cross the street. You feel nothing. Or perhaps, you think, perhaps you felt it, and it is merely indistinguishable from the pain you are usually feeling. The thought gives you a headache--which only raises further questions.
The coffee in your hand tastes like roses and solitude; you do not know what that means, but as you drink it, that is what you think. The sky has lightened; there is no less of nothing than you perceived before. The earth is warm beneath your feet, and you still think of your garden. Maybe you should do something about the garden. Just the other day, you thought you saw a weed growing out of your favorite skull and the thought disturbs you. You drink your coffee and begin to feel very alone.
There is a woman on the street with ten eyes, all on her face. She remarks that she cannot see and asks for a penny. You have no penny; you give her your coffee and the jam you cannot stand. She accepts them with fingers that consist only of bone. “Thank you,” she says, and none of her eyes look at you. Every single eye is looking at the ground, as though its warmth and emptiness can overpower her own. She sips the coffee and nods at the earth. You begin to understand your disconcertion.
You purchase a newspaper. It consists entirely of the words “IF YOU ONLY UNDERSTOOD.” You do, you think stubbornly. You understand everything. The skulls in your garden have only barely rotted. Perhaps that is the problem.
Children play in the park, but they do not smile. A vendor sells ice cream, but he says nothing. You miss your coffee and buy an ice cream. It tastes of regret; you give it back to the vendor, who can do nothing but sigh and nod as he receives it. “That is the response I usually get,” he says to you. You are hung up on your neighbor’s dog and the weeds in your garden, and do not reply.
A faint drizzle comes over the earth; its warmth turns the rain to clouds, and you find yourself in the vast, blue sky. The voices of people you never knew fill your ears, and you begin to wonder about that dog. Was it even a dog at all? Someone tells you that you do not understand, and you can do nothing but nod in reply. The newspaper was right, you think bleakly.
The clouds disappear and your feet are on the warm earth. You taste the memory of your lover and you hate it. You hate jam. You are glad you gave it to the woman with ten eyes. She did not see you, but you saw her. The weeds in your garden are your fault, you think angrily. You allowed them to exist. You resolve to pull them today. You loathe the way they obstruct your bones. The sky darkens, and you wade into the nothingness.