Mr. M. wakes every morning—well, actually, he wakes up at some point in artificial warm light. He washes up, he talks to his virtual assistant, it plays Frank Sinatra for him. Frank Sinatra. He could eat him up, he loves him so. The feeling, the elegance this great musician embodied, combined with white, superior manliness that oozes out of all of his songs. Mr. M. has a light breakfast and heads out to golf. Ricochets don’t threaten the glass dome. He runs into a few interesting men while golfing. Unfortunately Ray Kurzweil died last week. To the end he hadn’t managed to digitalize consciousness. He had so hoped to live on in the form of a chip. He departed bitterly. Now he’s gone, they had him buried outside the dome. There are a lot of machines here. Funny Boston Dynamics dogs, which can also kill, in case aliens, ah, what nonsense. Nobody here believes in aliens. Mr. M. plays golf, then it’s off to the club, then to the pool, evenings at a restaurant for a little chitchat with the scientists who are trying to help the men produce offspring by means of cloning. Live on at least a little. Mr. M. cannot imagine that all the IQ points assembled here will simply disappear upon their demise. Hastily buried on a planet where meteorites constantly rain down. It sounds like hail. It sounds like home. Down on earth. This shit is no fun. What is the point of being better than others if the others aren’t present? When his mood bottoms out, he calls the hooker. The women live in a space at the far end of the golf course. A woman comes over in a golf cart. When Mr. M. sees her, he becomes nauseous. He’s finished with all the women here. They no longer excite him. They’re not worth slurping down a Viagra and imperiling his health. Though obviously they have a first-class medical facility here with the best Indian specialists. Why Indian? Doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Mr. M. is so hopelessly bored that he begins to scratch himself bloody. Before he steps out of the dome onto the surface of Mars without a protective suit.

You can’t see Mars

From below. From the outskirts of the city,

There where wolves once lived,

DON

Is preparing

Dinner.