Enter the Man. He may be tall; he may lean or be lean. He wants to be someone, so he is. His hat is red, brown, or yellow, but either way, the hat clashes with his eyes. But what does he lead to in this protohypertext? Gender tones? Some strife that involves ice or a shallow fall? Fights with the local law over the widths of things? Debating? He points, and another man moves forward, follows the finger, shakes his head.

He’s had a fleck of metal in his heal for as long as he can remember.

He’s married, but he’s forgotten when it all happened. He’s not married and wants to be. He’s prone to bickering with a mill file and an ax. He says thing’s like, “The handle is broken” and “That mouse in my knee has claws sharper than . . .”

When he sees people enter, he closes his eyes and dashes off. But what images reside in his memory? Blocks of yellow? The smell of sod after rain? Subsiding boot sounds on wood? A brother’s voice saying, “Fooled ya”? Water bumping through stones or brushing against?

The man is prone to saying things like, “I wish he would just get on with it” and “I wish I could write another tale, because this one pains me.”

The End