The night started like any other, from the waking up, to the restless feeling of being sexy and uptight. He saw himself, not in the mirror, but silhouetted through the window in his own wall and saw the shape of his arms, the slithering movements, the glistening, throbbing neck, and 3/8ths of his shining ab muscles all grown and healthy, with the other babies, smiling, waiting for their blossoming. He felt, in a way, empowered like never before, which made him the most dangerous man alive only in the tremulous second when it mattered.
Such was his life, he felt it flowed within him: the weighted ideas of his head crumbling one after the other, the unbearable horniness flooding, the revolutionary optimism bulging from his eyes in purulent power, and, in the shoobydooby nakedness, like many men he had known, admired, and kissed gently on the lips and the tip of the nose, he began to put on his clothes one by one.
The horror occurred before he could even react, one by one like he had wanted to do, or rather, all at once: the scarf strangled his throat, the socks cramped his tiny toes, the pants rolled themselves through the knee joints and made him fall, the shirts and jackets all bulged into his muscles making them inert and useless, and the sombrero messed up his curly hairdos. And he hanged like a man, like all others creatures he had himself abandoned in his quest for liberation where he often debated with himself: to help others or to help his own persona without regards to others, and so there were two halves of him who used his beauty for the good of all, but with the secret fetish, the kinkiest, slimiest, massive, rupturing desire, to serve himself, and live only for himself.
“This is what I have become, a danger to others, and now, my own choices, my own life has turned against me!” he said, in the stupor of his own demise, for it was his own selfless, wondrous mind that had betrayed him, and had made him look at the possessions that belonged to him, but now made him, and reflected who he truly was.
For all in the nude, he did not know who he was supposed to be, but a man, lost in the great recess in between death and pre-life, an unflattering portrayal with very little payoff. He felt like a dumb dumb, but in the agony, he could not do more but resign himself to the failure. His own faulty hand had found him and was depriving him of everything he used to be, to replace it with an exactly copy, with one minor issue missing: a conscience where a smile used to be, the place where he could think, the connective tissue linking all of his habits and defecations together.
“To be this beautiful, what a curse, this is how it ends, of course!” he said with one last gap, and he disappeared inside the clothes that belonged to nothing, and his brain shut off in the night, which wasn’t particularly dark, in fact, it was quite pleasant and glamorous, one last shame for the sexy nude man covered in clothes.