The Author woke up one morning and wrote down all the things he had to do. Then he looked at his finger. The same finger he had had all his life at the end of his hand. All his life he had pointed at things with this finger, asking what they were. But he had never asked about his finger. A finger like any other, it should not have given him any pause. To think, even this day. But there it was, a finger at the end of his hand, extended and breaking at the edge into the end of him. He examined it closely and saw a singular finger. He tried pointing at this and that, but all he could see was his finger. Everything was his finger. Everything he touched now was a finger. A long time passed for everyone. He went through the list, moving his finger down the page. So much to do, so much to do. 

--from Boris by the Sea; Matvei Yankelevich