On Being A Disincarnate Eye That Witnesses the Spontaneous Combustion of a Plump Man

I am an eye. An eye that knows things. Regrettably, I can't act on the things I know. I can only blink, or roll around in my incorporeal socket. Hands and feet left me centuries ago. I can only float now. I call it "ocular drifting".

I am drifting right now. I am going down the streets, passing through the neon lights, resting on cupolas, and admiring the equanimity and staunch silence of statues. What's that? Oh, just a cat licking his front paws. What's that? Oh, just the moon broadcasting its milky, opalescent light.

I drift to a small club in a bad part of town. An overweight man is arguing with another overweight man about "Nancy". They're standing under a streetlight. They start throwing fists at one another. Cuss words too. This does not look good. Their mouths are bloody. Random teeth fall to the curb.

The fight is now over. The loser of the fight is walking down an alleyway. He seems disgusted with the outcome of the scrap. Animosity and hatred are surely not alien emotions to this man. In fact, he seems to be the inalienable conduit for all the hatred in the galaxy right now. Woah! He just punched his own jaw. Didn't see that coming.

For the past few minutes, the overweight man has been repeatedly punching himself and yelling out to "Nancy". The hatred he carries within seems to be burgeoning. I didn't think I would see this tonight. I thought, at least earlier, tonight would be like the center of the cyclone. This right here is the maelstrom.

Okay, now plumes of smoke are rising from the plump man's clothing. I can see flames on his shoes. He is still trying to get in touch with "Nancy". His fists are now on fire too. Jesus! This guy is combusting. Woah! He is really on fire now. I can hear the flesh frying in the pan of his own strife.

Ladies and gentlemen, the plump man just turned to white ash. There is nothing left of him but the ash. The remnants of his former existence are now best suited for the dark interior of an urn.

I would call "Nancy" or the cops or the ambulance, but I have no fingers and no voice. I am helpless here in this situation. But I've been here before. Over the centuries I've seen it all, and I've felt helpless every step, ur, drift of the way. The only thing I can do now is go on experiencing. I must leave this ash behind.

I am an eye. An eye that knows things. I am a pupil that goes on living. I am blessed, but mostly I am cursed.