He walks outside and breathes in the damp rotted air. There is a cold which coats the interior of his mouth when he breathes. He stares at the others, wandering, bludgeoned, cadavers pulled from miswired strings by a minor local god. One stands beside a wall and presses her fingers into the folds between her legs, attempting to crawl back inside herself, rubbed against interior walls, her small hands clawed from repeated wrist slashings. Another curls against the moonlight, his bones gone soft, the fluid in his eyes draining away to a hole inside his skull. He smells himself, all industrial solvents and stale air and mucous, and he does not recognize his body. He feels the small pieces of broken rock, cold in the night air, push against his feet and knows his body, but not his limitations, not where his body begins. a small boy with his fingers bandaged together runs to the me and begins to lick at his exposed belly, begins to tongue his button. The patients begin to corner and straddle each other, short agonized jerks which do not connect with their targets. There is a woman who stands separate, alone, and she walks away in the moonlight and is beautiful. The arch of her breasts, the slow sloping of her calves, the equator of her skull breed dulled throbbing agonies inside him, and he does not wonder or want for direction from the alien intelligence in his body. There is a ghost-shadow which walks alongside this woman, and he fills with a need to discover who this thing is, and shuffles his pale slippered feet along the parking lot, hurting inside to catch them.

the exit is hidden within the exit