When the proxy lands it is like poetry, a grace of trajectory so exact that it looks preordained: that written into the universe’s fabric and its attendant symmetries was the death of this man, meant to occur at this instant and in this manner. The curved blade shears through meat and fat, through the ropes of tendons and the columns of bones. From shoulder to hip the man is opened, pouring forth a revelation of anatomy, of alimentary tides—what once simmered within and ferried sustenance from heart to cerebrum. Not any longer. The grossness of lymph and bile, emptied onto the sand.
