Flatline

He realised this morning that if he died now, no one would ever have really known him.

In the aisle behind him a cold wind passes through, he feels chills on his back. He sticks his head in deeper between his shoulders and shoves his hands in his pockets.
He is standing in front of a painting. His eyes separate every line and every layer and recompose them as close as he thinks to how they were once visioned. As close as to how he thinks he can vision the ensemble now.
He has now proceeded to move his look to the frame, which he tries to decompose the same way as he did with the painting. As much as he'd like to think he's concentrating, he's now just staring.
Most of his skin is hidden in cloth and from the reddish shade that can be perceived of the top of his ears into the dark wool of the collar, seems to appear not a limit but a mere graduation, most naturally leaking from the top of his head down to the intricate patterns of the wool jacket, and then again, along the floor running from his soles.
There. There he is. Buried in his secrets of skin, deep inside the derm. And if he turned his head slightly, he could see the endless sea of flesh all around. Continuous, moving through.
He closes his eyes, forcing his eyelids one against the other as hard as possible, and clenches his fists in his pockets.
A silent and useless refusal.
"I won't be forgotten"
A silent revolution.