In fractions of a second life diminished. Although it is difficult to say whether the slightest bit of pain was felt, it is certain that the velocity at which Ben Travato connected with the concrete wall was catalyst. Indeed, as investigation would lead, the point of impact erased life.

The scene was just this: A faded orange Delta 88 with deteriorating vinyl top smashed straight into a reinforced concrete wall, causing the unbuckled passenger to be hurled through the front windshield and an irrelevant speed. From the windshield the passenger, Ben Travato, flew his course towards the concrete wall. Closer. Closer. Meters, centimeters, millimeters—stop.

This freeze-frame, just before the impact, shows human flesh as flimsy and delicate as ever was, but life still strokes along its weary road, unaware that its end is no longer just a matter of time, but also a matter of miniscule distance.

The next frame shows bare forehead touch the gray and mighty concrete. Life still exists.

In the next frame we see the skin flat and compacted between concrete and skull, with a possibility that the coarse and gritty texture of the cinderblock is now embossed on his forehead.

And in the next frame we see the hairline fracture, and pause, and zoom out to envision the jettison body, shattered glass, and crumpled metal. We see definite cause and effect, definite laws of motion. What we do not see is the systematic process by which life is repossessed. For this we zoom in closer, well beyond DNA. We zoom straight into Ben Travato’s soul

And it comes.

It implodes, driving out all meaning, good, and bad. There are no attachments now, just raw energy shaking loose of its cavity and dispersing itself throughout the atmosphere, mingling in the reclamation of its nascence.

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