I wander alone among these starry streets, looking for something as an origin, some place to take my thoughts back to where they were when I was just being, and there is nothing. I was born in a small city, like a small town but even more nowhere as you don't know everyone, and then I moved to a big city, and there I learned to make a lot of money and drive fast when I'm drunk so the cops don't suspect that I'm guilty inside and afraid. I learned to steal office supplies, disposable pens and pads and paper and floppy disks, all stuff that now I have to cart off to the landfill. I smoked cigarettes and threw the butts off of our 36th floor balcony, the one they're supposed to keep locked because of the suicides but that I infiltrated anyway, watching the paper and some kind of petrochemical filter fiber drifting down on the people below. I don't know where I came from, but I know I'm coming back here, day after day until I'm sixty-five, and then I can find a planned living community and maybe forgive my slutty wife and stupid, drug-addicted children for being mediocre, because I was mediocre. A gold-plated watch. The thought alone made me crumple up my fast food burger wrapper (styrofoam), cup (wax paper with plastic seal), and napkins (bleached paper from what was once a forest in Brazil), and hurl them out over the city of people who didn't give a shit either. Fuck them. They didn't even look up.