He made phone calls all day and no one answered, and he knew his service was disconnected, but still he called, and still no one answered.

Someone locked the doors on his apartment, and he could not get out. He made phone calls and no one answered. He called 911 and no one answered. He stood on his balcony and threw pictures and coins and candles down at the neighbors' houses, tracing their trajectories with his eyes, drawing long dotted lines through the air and imagining that these were connections, that he could speak to his neighbors through these dotted lines.

He kicked his door as hard as he could. He tipped over his coffee table and tore out the pages of all the coffee table books he had bought. He stood on his balcony and screamed at his neighbors. He threw books hard at their windows, but the glass did not break. The glass wobbled and danced, and laughed at him.

He jumped off his balcony and traced his trajectory as he fell, a bold dotted line through the air. He aimed for the neighbors rooftop, but missed by inches. He fell and shattered his legs on the pavement. The paramedics called him "buddy" as they carried him to the hospital. A beautiful nurse told him everything was going to be ok. She tucked him into a clean white bed, and he never saw her again.

Sometimes he woke in the night and saw monsters roaming out in the dark halls. Giant paws and black eye holes, sharp hooves and scaly tails, brief glimpses disappearing around corners. He called out to them, but they didn't answer. He threw movies and magazines at the monsters, and at the other patients in his room, and out his window, tracing dotted lines in all directions, sending his voice pulsing out like a global broadcast. But he was was disconnected, and no one answered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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