“Someone watches him. Someone he once knew. And though he hates to be watched, hates the relish of the morbidly curious, hates their freedom most of all, humans no longer hold significance for him. If they come to stare he rages at them for a time, then forgets them. He only knows to keep his back to the sea. He learned it as a child learns about glowing embers, learns not to touch such fiery wonders…
“The watcher with the old familiar face sat a distance apart from the man with his back bared to the lake. Watching, idling with a weed.
“’Who would have believed that one day you’d sit among the dead covered in your own filth?’
“The madman never responded. Never showed a sign of who he used to be. Sometimes he sat silent with his eyes half-closed, locked in an impenetrable trance. More often he was not silent at all, locked, then, in careening frenzies no man could still.”