He could tell himself it was the heat, but he felt transparent. Spread thin. Half feeling, as his head swam, what it was to be spilled against the sandy earth that surrounded him. Like so much paint. Windows on his life in colors muted by the sun. By time. For all the horizon stretched out endlessly in a brilliant expanse of callous blue, the world felt contracted, constricted.
Over and over, pieces of his life lay scattered across the landscape as though reflected, refracted through shards of a broken lens.
What could possibly merit this scrutiny? Why was he painted here? Why was he painted here? That was the element of the whole thing that seemed to dance tickilishly outside of his being able to grasp it. And no way that he looked at this could Parkman even begin to guess how he might try and understand why... Mostly, though, he was gripped by the sheer terror of significance.
Any other person, confronted with a similar sight, might feel important. As he stood staring, Matt only felt that there must be some mistake.