I was at the window absentmindedly watching a puddle explode and reform as it was visited by the wheels of ugly cars, when I realized my blinks were taking longer than they ought to. Each was a broad swath of black across my vision, clinging adoringly to my eyes, which hadn't the strength to brush them off. I decided to go outside. My mother had taught me to do that when I found myself losing familiarity with myself; it was either because she thought the air would restore me or because she thought it would be easier for my limp body to be discovered should I be suffering from some serious malady. As I descended the stairs I came back to the thought about the cars. They weren't ugly cars, rather all cars were ugly from above. I considered that maybe the old cars were even more ugly, since people lived lower in those days, and I should be thanking their improving looks. Maybe cars would adapt with time as more and more people lived in the taller and taller buildings, spending their time, as I do, staring down into the receding world. But this was probably too optimistic. In fact, I'd observed an increasing number of birds which seemed to prefer standing around on the ground over fly about in the sky. I could easily imagine that they, too, were getting sick of the automobiles' dorsal presentations. On the street, the blustery air did wonders for my blinks, and I accomplished a decent walk before returning to my window.

Fime Shapa
A Recording