4:39 A.M.

He raised his head up from the sink. The insides of his hands were moist and gritty. He turned his head to the side and looked through the open door at the florescent clock on his nightstand, he grunted, and slowly, with great pain, walked toward his bed. “There is no God,” he said to himself, “No creator of men would give a fat man flat feet.” He laughed a little at this as he sat on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling three inches off the ground; he put his head in his hands again and pushed back his bible black hair, then wiped the grease on the sheetless mattress.
“Dios es nada, tu es nada, yo es nada.” He said to himself triumphantly. “Dios es nada, tu es nada, yo es nada.” This he believed. “It is good to have this truth.” He yelled. But nobody was there to respond.
He lay down and slid like a lump of coagulated brown gravy into the center of the mattress, where years of sleeping created for him his own man shaped mold. He tried to close his eyes, but his feminine eyelashes seemed glued to his face and forehead and they would not close. His soft rubbery hands rested on his corpulent shirtless belly just bellow his unnatural breasts and above his greatest protrusion, his girth, it was hairless and the skin was malignant with black moles and a tiny maze of interwoven warts. Stretch marks reached in all directions, like medium sized earth worms tattooed on his skin, pink and purple and darker purple. But this he did not mind.
“Dios es nada, tu es nada, yo es nada.” He mumbled, his thick tongue slurring the words as he wished himself to sleep.
He felt big. His insides, his teeth, his cheeks, his flat feet, his coffee colored eyes, he felt big everywhere. His face was flat and round the cheekbones bent inward the jawbone non-existent, lost in his chins. His hairline reached just above his thick eyebrows giving him the appearance of a man with no forehead. His ears were perfectly proportioned to each other but only half the size they should be.
He moved his hands down his belly and stuck his paunchy finger into his bellybutton losing his ring finger up to the second knuckle, his girlish eyelashes finally closing. His mouth opened and seemed to hang slightly to the right. His breathing was loose and cankered with a brief gasp at the end of each effort.
“Dios es nada, tu es nada, yo es nada.” He said with one last triumphant gasp.