GEORGE WIDEKIND

Now I will tell you about Widekind's death: his death was nothing spectacular; it was so quiet that his own relatives forgot him, covered by a shroud made of he is resting in peace without even supposing that George suffered the most terrible extinction that a living being could experience.

Among the anesthetists there is a fear of an incorrect application of an anesthesia that does not efficiently disconnect the nerves, and only paralyze the muscles. The patients in that case feel the wild pain of the wounds and the sutures... they feel the removal of their organs and the conversations between the doctors. Every patient dies from a heart attack triggered by the intensity of pain: George died that way and didn't deserve it. He couldn't do anything about it, just wait until the end.

So he imagined that he was driving back to his apartment; the car’s lights were dissolved in endless lines of color, which you could felt like the architecture of invisible cephalopods. Could he really see something besides darkness? And the lines began to draw naked men in wild races through the trees: the sweat of the hunt and the animals, torn apart with worms of light flowing through their bodies: anorexic bas-reliefs in his empty apartment.

It was the most desperate solitude. And he kept smoking the same cigarettes, waiting for the extinction of his race by some meteorite and he dreamed of velvet-lined rooms as if they were a matrix. Throwing him into the void, Westburg had learned how to reject him in an inevitable way. Nothing to do about it, except smoking sad early mornings hearing the blues. Dead horses under the asphalt, and their silver jumping free through their eyes.

​

Fractal Man. Julius Maynard