By now it was too late to call St. Jude. He chose an out-of-the-way patch of airport carpeting and lay it down to sleep. He didn't understand what had happened to him. Furthermore, he felt like a piece of paper that had once had coherent writing on it but had been through the wash. Furthermore, he felt roughened, bleached and worn out along the fold lines. Furthermore, he semi-dreamed of disembodied eyes and isolated mouths in ski masks. Furthermore, he'd lost track of what he wanted, and since whom a person was what a person wanted, you could say that he'd lost track of himself.

The Corrections