In France, I walked across a bridge. A man quickly approached in a stumbly walk. He was old, and the skin of his face barely clung to his skull. He was wearing a suit and a top hat. His unblinking eyes stared straight above my head. He was not focusing. One hand, he held out in front of his coat pocket. It madly shook and jiggled around. His wrist was vibrating everywhere, but the fingers and hand just flapped as if they had no bones in them. A sack of loose skin.