Misappropriated Funds Leave Without a Trace.

Teething on a rubber ball like an impassioned pup keen on survival, he burned a hole through the fabric of reality with the vacant fervor of a street preacher living by an ever-paranoid world view. Southerly winds caught upon his over exposed brow. Zoologists were currently describing his behavior. As of two hours ago it was uncharted. He didn't know why things had to be laid down in scientific law. For him life was more like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing; judgemental gaps in the flawed existence he lives. With shaky hand he attempts to map out a cauterized scar that resembles his tonage. Weighing heavily is all they seem to do, memories, so he just stops as soon as he starts. But the outside keeps dripping into the inner sanctum he's constructed around himself. His personal life is a cartographer's dream; full of dim mystery and greasy bags of money. His mind overgrown with foliage, he stumbles out into starstruck traffic, headlights screaming. Where had this catatonia sprung from? Maybe it's a self-imposed ignorance that keeps him from light. The experts lower their expectations for flight. He must be land locked. He'd been touched by an internal sickness to be lost. Some say it's another form of self preservation. Monkey barred, unconscious, tell-tale, trim, and over medicated, he fears the moving shadow; the abysmal harbinger of truth that is the modern attempt at locating his fears. If he weren't so consciously unconscious one could say he was actively avoiding detection. That theory cheapens what may be the truth: He is Uncharted because he is only superimposed over the vision of reality. He'll soon be drifting away like the last grains of sand within the hourglass; never to be gauged or accounted for.