The headline read: “An icicle wedged totally through a man’s skull!” The article was in reference to a poor fellow’s condition. He had been smoking a cigarette outside of his apartment building in the middle of winter. There were couples and their dogs about, not smoking, but plumes of matter escaping their mouths nonetheless. The man did not have such partners in his life other than the insects and rats that lived within his walls. An icicle fell from the edge of a fire escape and landed where the man had been standing. Later, the doctor told him the icicle would have to stay in his skull.

“But why hasn’t it melted?” the man is reported as having said.

“One should not ask those questions right away,” said the doctor, “I must draft your bill.” The doctor pictured in the article was extremely thin. Curiously, the man himself was not pictured. One had to, yet again, believe the printed word.

I finished reading the article with a bit of curiosity, but it soon left me. Later, the house lizard—Horace—ripped the newspaper in half, and the headline merely said: icicle wedged totally. I let Horace have at it; I felt he would get more out of the paper than me.

My day proceeded as usual: lazy declarations of war against my life’s decisions; a visit to the parking lot of my mind; a slow stroll through the neighborhood, peeking into the windows of beautiful, fully clothed strangers. My life is lonesome, yes, but I’ve learned to like it. Or at least, like it enough.

Later in the early evening, I was smoking a cigarette underneath a large oak tree and an icicle fell on top of me, puncturing my skull. I didn’t know icicles could cling to plant matter. This whole thing was old news to me by then, so I didn’t bother with the medical snafu, though there were bystanders who urged otherwise, some of them on their phones, alerting the authorities. In my skull the icicle would have to stay. I am not in the position to perform such arbitrations against myself, really.

Back home, I saw that Horace had eaten several paragraphs. The headline now read: wedged totally. That sounded something like a sandwich advertisement, which settled the matter of dinner. Pastrami on rye, though no mustard, due to my sensitive stomach. Every day, one stumbles around, wondering what they will have for dinner.

No sooner had I placed the last bite in my mouth when I heard a knock on my door. Journalists.

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Sebastian Castillo is the author of SALMON, Not I, and 49 Venezuelan Novels. He lives in Philadelphia Twitter: @bartlebytaco