The Death of an Insignificant Man

The descent into madness is slow to the point of being imperceptible. The man lies on the earth, his blood already drying on the earth having poured from a hole in his head. He is wearing a short sleeved shirt, black trousers. He stairs into empty space and his lips, the dead's lips are always so indifferent and relaxed, are half open in a breathless sigh. Useless and limp, the otherwise perfectly functional body now just so much abandoned machinery. This man had put on those clothes that morning, he had looked at himself in the mirror before going to work, probably to check that his hair is clean and looks combed. That same hair is now in the earth, it is matted with his own blood, and he doesn't care, nobody cares, except for those people who had once loved him, and whose hands once caressed that slowly balding head; a head now destined for corruption, along with all the thoughts, hopes, fears and aspirations that lay within it. The world will not be any worse or better for his death, he did not invent anything miraculous or find a cure for a disease. He was just an insignificant man and now he is dead. Good night Mr. dead, insignificant man. This is your first night beneath the cold, damp earth.