On the twenty-third of October, 2093, his friends and gf left him. His hair, which had previously been a mop of unkempt locks, now became frazzled and dreaded, giving the appearance of some monk or ascetic. His lot was that of the rest of us,

to toil and wither away in our apoplectic intellect, giving ourselves the dream of having done something in the past.

He was blue-collar, white-collar, a toiler, like the rest of us. And he saw the morning clouds as we all did:

heralds of a day long-forgotten, not forsaken, never understood. A day of the future, of movement, of humanity in its kindest, most open form. We walk the walks, and separate into worlds unbeknownst.