Mister Lovell was a very sick man. He knew this because of all the books he kept on his bookshelf. Each one turned to him and said, "You're terribly ill, Mister Lovell. Why don't you go and get some rest?"
Alas! There was simply no time for that. There were a million things to be done and no time to do them. Every day in the week was bursting with chores and tasks that sunk their claws into his fingers and refused to let go until he had given them a good whack with the blunt side of an ax. Today's task was to get rid of the weeds.
As he walked towards the door, his house swayed. He clearly remembered that the last time it had swayed, the ground had gone with it. Nevertheless, he pressed onward.
Outside was everything. A lot of everything. Trees danced in and out of his vision as the road rose and fell to match his footsteps. He saw the gases in the air glow and smile softly to him with their incurable joyousness. The sky spun around and around like a dancer set loose upon the stage, her arms fiercely clutching the sun so it would not fall. The clouds looked on in joy, weeping tears of water that swamped the Earth in awe of her beauty. Lovell felt the sickness within him again, a looming bubble of nausea that told him that he was alive. He was afraid that he might forget if he were to not be reminded of it.
Soon the brightness of the day had faded into the heavy film that lay atop everything in sight. In that thickness was hidden Lovell's task of the day. A dilapidated building, sagging into the mud and bent from the rain, was where he needed to go. And when he arrived there, he had forgotten why he left. He did remember that the doors, the gaping holes through which the blackness of the interior shined through, were open. Open and willing, they did not utter a sound when he passed by them.