Outside I can hear them talking. I don’t know who they are—but they’re here, and they’re talking. And though I can’t understand a single God damn thing they’re saying, I know that none of it is consequential, and none of it is good.

They have been out there, talking about absolutely nothing, for over a year.

From my window perch I have heard gunshots and I have heard screams; I have heard laughter also. I have witnessed drug dealers sell drugs to drug users. I have seen freak outs and psychedelic meltdowns. I have seen rain. Mostly I have seen the sun.

A big orange dog with sullen eyes paces up and down the street all day. As far as I can tell he has no home. We have made eye contact. I have communicated to him, behind an apathetic gaze, that I think he is OK. I did this because I perceived that he needed to know.

Sometimes a son of a bitch just needs to know.

Recently I watched the poor creature almost get wiped out by some maniac driver. My street doesn’t have speed bumps, so these fuckers rip through the neighborhood at 80 miles an hour. The dog jumped out of the way as a car swerved to hit it. Down the way, where all the dealers gather, I heard laughter. Someone shouted, “Hit him! Hit him!” I could hardly believe it. Why anyone would wish pain and death on something as harmless as this dog is beyond me. If anything I wish pain and death on these ignorant fools.

My mind wanders and I sometimes think I would like to be out there mixing it up with the animals. But when I see something like this I am reminded that humans are trash, and that this is the trash world they have built. They don’t want things to be beautiful and peaceful; they want to be excited by mass destruction and rivers of blood. I would almost feel sorry for them if it weren’t for the fact that they are so aggressively vile.

I like a few of them. My friends here in the house treat me nicely. The people who come to visit me, and who call me by my name, are mostly agreeable. I only protest when I am picked up off the ground against my will.

I am not a child, you see. I am a thirty-five-year-old man. I am also not a play-thing.

Jesus, I have no idea what I’m saying. Everyone is asleep and I’m depressed for reasons besides.

My favorite toy, the “Cat Dancer,” is on the rug in the living room. I have tried fucking around with it by myself, but it’s not the same.

Nothing is worth it anymore. I am tired. I will be tired for the rest of my life.

Gunshots on the street. A car speeds away. If you don’t think we’re all just circling the drain, then kid, I don’t what to tell you.