I awaken, face up, eclipsed by the shadow of a hand blackened against the grey sky. No one else can see it. Every day the hand grows and every day I swear the people down the street go missing. My boss tells me, no, keep writing the funnies. In my sleep I wrestle with the hand and in my life I become a sleepwalker. One day the hand grows big enough to eclipse the sun; one day the people begin to notice because they must wear coats and keep their houses warm. The people down the street are gone now, but the hand is still hungry, so it takes you and me. I write the funniest funny on the coldest day, and then I am taken. As I approach the hand, I say, I knew it all along, I knew but they stopped me from saying so. I float towards the hand and it eats me, wisdom and all. How did it get so cold, they say.