Upon a dragonfly's wings, lies a drop so intricate you've got to squint your eyes really tightly to notice. And when you notice it, the insect will depart and make headway into the sky while you stand there wondering how long it can hang on before it either evapourates or just falls to the ground. Fumbling around with that long cord, he muses to himself and pulls those broken ear buds back inside his ears. He lost the soft covering to the right one long ago, but he likes the scratchy feeling it makes inside his ear as the music floats away inside his brain. He sniffs a couple times, and takes a long drag upon his cigarette. Scuffing his feet into someone's yard, making little imprints from the worn sneakers he's been wearing since he found out who he was, he lets the smoke escape his lips and coalesce with the surrounding air. The name he was born with doesn't mean shit, because the one he adopted since he got those sneakers defines who he is. It's the year 2000 something and he could care less, it could be 1967 for all that matters. Life is life, and this life is one of a nomad that perpetually keeps walking on for as long as it takes. Winding the long cord around his rough fingers as he lets the music become his pulse, it cuts off the circulation slowly but he doesn't wince. There's something kind of comforting about this subtle pain. And if it didn't do it, he'd probably have fed himself to the woodchipper a long time ago. The word, E. Nigma floats through his stiff brain cells as he vaguely recalls that this is the only name he will answer to, if at all. The street barely breathes as he walks, a sole passenger on this dusty highway. The suburbs barely even whisper as he accidentally blurts something out loud, one word...maybe three pass his lips and then he stops, suddenly.

There's a squirrel in the middle of the road, he gets down upon his knees and looks at it. It doesn't seem dead, nor does it seem alive; reaper's a scary bitch especially when she keeps you clinging on for so long. The animal shivers every now and again, breathing getting shallow with each second that passes but N just watches, perhaps he cocks his head but he doesn't breathe a word. The animal is suffering; silently it watches him, what is it thinking? Please put me out of my misery? Where the hell is that hooded bitch? I can't just hang around forever! N's eyes travel to the waist of the squirrel that seems almost non-existant as he notices the tire marks that are sketched upon the mangy flesh that's leftover. It's like reality's erased almost every notion that there used to be two parts to what made up this foraging little animal. His eyes close, and open again. Nope, it's still breathing. There's something about the squirrel that makes him know that soon enough all the life will just float off with it and that maybe the next time the tires find its tired little form, it won't care anymore. His eyes shut closed as the squirrel struggles to take in a breath and open again when he lets one out, N takes the phones out of his ears and gingerly touches the little animal. The squirrel flinches, but he's barely got the energy to fight this big towering figure that's coming at him afterall all he sees are fuzzy outlines by now. And as he breathes in, rasping heavily that large gloved creature comes down upon his head and pushes him hard against that pavement. He can't feel anything; the squirrel, or the one responsible for putting him out of his misery. He feels something soft and wet under his gloved fingers and realized that he has crushed the squirrel's skull.

N draws his hand back and examines the dark fabric that is now covered in brain matter, he muses lightly to himself about licking his fingers and then remembers something about wild animals and parasites. Eyes continue to follow the weaving interspersed with the remnants of whatever life he found within the squirrel and calmly, he removes the glove throwing it across the road. He shrugs, nonchalantly and replaces his ear buds. Feeling the comforting rigid form inside his right ear again he continues to walk along the stretch of pavement and feels his sneakers emanate the temperature of it along his toes. N. pulls the hood up over his eyes, and just like that he's gone he thinks to himself. Fuck Descartes! Just 'cause I can think has nothing to do with whether I exist or not. Closing his eyes again, he sees the little squirrel breathing behind his lids and he smiles a bit thinking how he totally beat the reaper on that shit, take that you little bitch! N - 1, Death - 0. N. laughs at his total arrogance and rolls his eyes even, 'you stupid bastard, as if you could ever beat death'. But, perhaps there's something about N. that you don't know. Perhaps, before he became N. this creature of humankind suffered something that made him who he is today. And maybe even, this N. being is not human at all but he's not immortal either. So, who is he really? This mystery that walks the streets just before dawn and just after dusk? This crepuscular creature is actually a fugitive. What kind of fugitive might you ask? N. is a fugitive of death, that's right. He's escaped the reaper at least 12 and a half times, or so he thinks. He's lost count.