He wakes up. There is old time detective shows playing on the radio in a world that never existed even then that had no racism, no sexism. Everyone was either good or evil and the bad guy always got caught and the good guy was always charming. He steps into the cavalcade of Decay that is living. He drives his car. He is part of this festival of decay – this continuing cycle of shitting, pissing, eating, boring, writing, thinking, sleeping, on forever until death. He watches and hears cameras like cicadas snapping away at a wooden box as a woman is taken into a church. He hears about a five year old girl who was raped and left for dead in India. There are probably thousands who have not been found and once left for dead do die. How much sickness is there in the world or is there the same amount that there has always been it’s just the lens is focused that much more tightly and the view is that much wider than it has been in the past? He does not know the answer to that. The Monday news hurricane continues to sweep through his life. The suspect is caught. He ran over his brother. He cannot speak. He is writing things down. He sees how we venerate our own western dead over the dead of others. Sat atop a pedestal of ivory. There is a terrible earthquake in China again. No doubt poorly made schools have crushed children and the poor. He learns that he is in the richest 10% of the worlds wealthy. This does not make him feel any better. He goes to meet with friends and eat donuts. The donuts are wonderful and there is peanut butter and bacon and chili and chocolate and lemon curd and traditional and there is laughter and joy and happiness and coffee and then he must return to work where there is child rape and there is geological tragedy and there are funerals and there are fictive iron domes and there are foiled terrorist plots in both English and in French. Life is not all bad. There are donuts and friendship and happiness and even Frank Millar wrote some good things once. He thinks that he probably did but maybe if he returned to the things about Frank Millar that he used to like he will find that he no longer likes them. He is still saturated in the news. He cannot walk for the thickness that oozes around his legs. It is a terrible thing oozing as it is from he doesn’t know where. There is no truth. There are no facts. The limitations of all the advances of human thought fray at the edge like old carpet. He remembers listening to a doctor on the radio once who said that medicine was an art and not a science. He remembers being thankful that that man was not his doctor but now he knows that it is true. There is no certainty except death. There is no way of guaranteeing anything except that the end of your life might come at any moment and the frayed tapestry of reality is every shifting and mysterious at the edges. Where the mathematics says that 2+2 does not equal 4 in all situations where a particle can be there and not be there at the same time and that our observation of it changes it.Where martial law is declared and the freedom loving peoples cheer at their oppression. Where voting for the inconsequential contest of singing is more popular than the consequential contest of democracy. He watches a cartoon and goes to sleep. This life is complicated yet fulfilling. He wants more of it but he is beginning to have doubts about the way he is living it. He goes to sleep confused and full of left over donuts.