Hair. Hair on floor. Wood floor. Skin without hair. Skin pressed against mirror. Shoes on pavement. Stone pavement. Lost coins on pavement. Toilet mats. Toilet brush.
Earlier that day on the West Side Highway the sunlight was hitting leafless trees at a sharp angle. It was spring again. And I was in luck, the pizza box with the image of a dough juggling man was still there next to a flattened rat.
A decision had to be made. I carried the dirty pizza box heading East towards my studio against a dark blue sky. The grease running onto my leather gloves and down coat. 
The rat run over by a car was the only interesting discovery all day. Too many sirens and firetrucks coming and going to get any work done. On average one every ten minutes. And this wasn‘t even on the day of the explosion ten blocks away, filling the air with smoke and helicopters. The wind had shifted unfavorably to the North and was now blowing directly towards the 13th floor. The smell of death and old building material soon mixing with rain. 
A week later, sun, moon and earth were going to line up in a straight axis.
A total eclipse accompanied by record high ocean tides. I was feeling tense in anticipation. Nobody else seemed particularly worried about this on the street with the rat. Most people were ending their weekend rushing back to the suburbs in their cars. Cherokees, Patriots, Explorers and Compasses.
Now we have become objects and the death of a rat is meaningless. No other species has ever left more than its skin and bones behind on this planet. Pants blending in with floor. White carpet. White chairs. White flowers. Yellow flowers. Unused TVs. Leopard skin towels. Mirrors. More mirrors. Empty beer cans. Chrysler building afar. No ceiling lamps. Just shades. Metal counter. Absence of cat. Fur pillow. (photo: Josephine Meckseper.)