He wakes up. He reads Malcolm X and a drinks a bottle of wine from a plastic bag. He wanders past the same diaper that has been open on the sidewalk for more than two weeks now ignored and swollen as it displays itself onto the concrete. Batman is an assassin in purgatory a merchant in the hedonistic league. Wet leaves look like squashed mice.
Cold fog rolling in. Blizzard bites and scrapes. News full of violence and death and sex with children along with reports that human beings are getting less violent. The rich sit on their little mountain in Davos and declaim and weep and gnash and claw – begging to be given the chance to fix the problems that they have created. The Biggest Loser causes weeping. The Syrian War causes weeping. The Holocaust causes weeping. No more hot chocolate causes weeping. The mashed up paste of experience and choice trivializes everything. JFK is dead. Jimi Hendrix is dead. The King of Love is dead. Plastic cutlery and wooden chopsticks are destroying the planet. He does his taxes. He registers his car. He eats bread. He drinks coffee. He worries. He stops worrying. Life continues. He goes to sleep.