You dress warmly and head down to the street. It’s the usual bleakness of everyday life, where everyone seems busy, oblivious to the fact that none of this makes sense. Yet, you still have to pretend it’s more than a ritual.

The shades of grey from the brutalist administrative buildings and the decaying whites of once beautiful houses can’t compete with the neon or tungsten lights from interiors. People are awake at this ungodly hour when they shouldn’t be, if they had jobs. But somehow, it’s comforting to know you’ve been a survivor all these years.

Your childhood is far away now, and it’s a good thing. The innocence required to navigate adulthood pales in comparison to the empowerment of making your own decisions. No longer under the wing of parents who should never have had children, as they couldn’t even take care of themselves.

The true tragedy lies beyond the acid rain and the pollution of falsehoods you’re forced to ingest due to your financial constraints. It’s the spiritual disconnect, the loss of a connection that society deems too dangerous. Free minds questioning their origins and the meaning of it all are a threat.

And then there’s music, perhaps the last of the airwaves that don’t kill you but make you more alive.