The mechanic finds that he’s grown tired of all the games. Why was he chasing the mouse in the first place? Is he really that hungry? Does anything matter at all? He sits on the sand, his socked feet digging into the damp, salty beach.
“My name is Abraham,” he says. The ocean doesn’t respond. The ocean doesn’t care. The island of trash doesn’t care. The sun, its bottom edge just now behind the earth’s curve, is unaware of Abraham’s existence. The ball of combusting gas will never know the tug of Abraham’s atoms on its own. Equal and opposite.
Abraham sits for what to him seems like a long time. He imagines himself Buddha. He waits for the Om. But instead he hears his insides. They are angry. They want to do what they like to do. Break down and rebuild.