At night, the skyline shoots out pinpricks of light and I am in awe. In the morning, I get trash caught on my ankles, greased Styrofoam making its sound against my skin. Even that is beautiful.

ON THE STREETS, I BLUR INTO THE population. I mix into the faces.

Here, no one notices the knot unless they get too close. They don’t even realize there is a pool of sweat in the largest crevice, into which one might toss a very small pebble, causing ripples.

“Got any change?” a man screams from a wheelchair.

His mouth hangs open, a single tooth protruding from the red of his collapsing gums.

“This world is pain!” screams a woman next to him.

Her eyes are bloodshot, watery, weary.

I slide a gold coin into each of their cups.

“What the fuck you looking at?” screams the woman. “Get moving, bitch! This isn’t a movie!”

I disappear quick, knot throbbing hard, into the smear of the city’s faces.

◆The first cities were built roughly 11,000 years ago

◆Agriculture, slaughter, and farming are believed to be a prerequisite for cities; consistent food supplies made it easier for people to live in one place

◆Cities reduced transport costs for goods by bringing large populations into one location

MY APARTMENT IS UP A WIDE FLIGHT OF stairs. It is on the second floor, a small one bedroom with wide windows, dark wooden floors, white walls, a tiny kitchen. It is like the house at The Acres in this way.

I don’t have much: My clothes and books, a few rocks which glisten in the sun.

Outside, a constant chorus of noise: Breaking glass, trash trucks, arguments, a baby sobbing out all the tragedies of the world through its wailing.

THE AD I CHOOSE FROM THE PAPER SAYS:

WANTED: PASSIONATE TYPIST

Can you type quickly and with passion? We want to add you to our vibrant, culturally dynamic office. We offer competitive salary, free water, and a positive workplace. To apply, please send a photograph from the neck up.

“AND HOW WOULD YOU CONTRIBUTE TO the culture here in addition to typing up my daily notes?” the man in the suit asks.

The bald sheen of his head shines through several slicked, thin hairs. His skin is covered in strange red freckles, a blotching which travels beneath collar and shirt sleeve. The dead skin of his face is caught on his eye glasses, which are smeared with the thin yellow grease of his fingers and cheeks.

A stack of papers sits on his desk, many folders, an old mug of coffee. I picture myself typing up the notes every single day. Then, I picture my fingers in the brown sludge ringing his coffee mug, smearing it across my face like war paint.

“I would smile pretty frequently,” I say, smiling. “I bring a positive energy to the workplace.”

“Excellent,” he says. “We don’t appreciate frowning here.”

“Absolutely,” I nod and smile.