A man walks briskly down the street. This singular man is distinguished by the anxiety he carries in his stomach. Yet, his burden is as artificial as his coat. His ears tremble with the cry of his living finger nails clipped by machines and his legs quiver with nausea inspired by others. He receives fresh torment from every person he passes. The anxiety enters through his eyes and passes through his bowels. His trouble however is never expelled like last night’s dinner. There is no inspiration or escape. His feelings cannot be pumped from him like semen from the belly of a whore. “Maybe I’ll take a walk through the sewer,” he says.

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