Suddenly, all his belongings had legs, and scurried away in different directions. The phone, the sofa, the television. His own legs could not carry him in all the different directions. His brain seized. Instinct told him he should be chasing down the refrigerator, the slowest lumbering vault. Intellect told him he should chase down the most valuable item. Was it the computer? Was it the file cabinet with years worth of tax returns and the old love letters from Jana? Faced with this predicament, he could hardly define value. So his own legs fell numb, broke down. A heap on the ground, he found that even the clothes he was wearing had grown legs, pried themselves loose of him and began flight. He made a feeble attempt for his undershirt and boxers but his back was full of bricks. So he lay looking at the sky, bemoaning, anticipating a swarm of bees, a throng of locusts. The clouds scattered above him, the sun set too quickly, and he could see the moon, could see it grow legs and run from him, the awkward run of a giant lumberjack, or that of a duck.