His eyes remained in place, recording everything that transpired. Pulled flesh quivered and bubbled, changing from it's familiar green to white and down to a boiling red. It then pulsated between crimson and violet. The man who didn't know who he was felt the little identity he had gurgle up and fade away.
This wanderer was having trouble remembering who he was, or had been. He knew he was a man made from the parts of other men. His scars would sting sometimes when it was very cold out. But, it was frigid where he was born so he was used to the winter. Every now and then though he needed to bundle up.