From the rooftop, he looked out over the city, his eyes following an undulating wave of pigeons on the jet stream between the buildings as he contemplated the imminent, disturbing loss he felt certain to experience when physical mail no longer arrived in a three-dimensional mailbox.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
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