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He stands looking at the hand that is a fish. He knows he is late for some meeting of some committee, and he knows that it has been his initiation into the committee that has, in an absurd way, enabled him to look at his own hand as no longer his own but as something outside of himself. As a fish. And he doesn't care that he is not hurrying to this meeting whose nature and content he doesn't know. He feels the urgency, but he doesn't pay it mind. Instead, he looks at the hand that was a hand and still is a hand but is now a fish. The fish makes everything real. Fish blood. Fish slime. Fish stench. Strong, gasping, fish. A muscle straining against its own suffocation out of water.