More from Man Walks Into a Room
He wouldn't simply allow things to happen to him anymore. He was alive, and for the first time since he'd woken out of the slumber of his past life, he felt it. It was not that he was painfully aware of each moment, as he had been upon waking from the operation. It seemed to him now that it was probably only the dying who saw the world with such precise and formal clarity as that, knowing it was already lost to them. No, this was something different, as if at some point in the hazy bacchanal of the night he had been handed back his life. A moment of reprieve, his heart bursting with a high-spirited hope, hammering its percussion in his chest.
He could hear Donald saying something else but it didn't matter anymore what, because then and there it occurred to him that maybe the emptiness he'd been living with all this time hadn't really been emptiness at all, but loneliness gone unrecognized. How can a mind know how alone it is until it brushes up against some other mind? A single mark had web made, another person's memory imposed onto his mind, and now the magnitude of his own loss was impossible for Samson to ignore. It was breathtaking. He sank to his knees.
"Sammy? I said, are you there?"
It was as if a match had been struck, throwing light on just how dark it was.
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