Skippy sort of asleep by the scribbly dirt road, his finger sticking into the soil. He's been out here for days, smelling rank when the sky's blue, and very bunched up when it's stared and cold. How can he possibly know shit? That's the lame conclusion he's reached, drawn by eerily dumb revolving thoughts. Everything is just a result of the sun gradually eating the earth, he guesses. Even that idea is too rigorous for his brain. He's nothing much, a small town boy.
Now it's him and the world again. He can't ignore the fact, seeing as how it's so gigantically around him.
Not just the things he can see. He means the world down this road, past those far off, unclimbable mountains, down to the village where people merely exist like the trees, bushes, grass growing unevenly on either side of his head. Maybe they'd move around more, but less meaningfully than the tiniest thing he has seen in the woods. That would be ideal - not to want anything, even to eat food or shit it back out, and being by himself in a shack with his stuff, and everything would be able to talk, so his shirt would be as cool as his friends. Everything would have the same consciousness, and pretty close to the same flat voice, no mind, no instinctual shit, just movements and ideas that fit in a pattern too simple to notice.
All these movements through the green wide mountains, down to the cities suburbs, through the animals, plants and funghi living the forest come together in Skippy's head, which lay motionless on a wall, going now empty, completely empty, drifting, spinning slowly through his finger into the soil.