An unnamed man from outer space sat on a park bench in Ohio and thought: the sun looks so small from here. The white of the snow turned to wet under his shoeless feet, and he watched the down-turned eyes of passersby as they shuffled along, careful to look cold, as they made their way from Point A to Point A, with, perhaps, a stop or two in between. How curious they are as they walk about alone, discontent with life, but avoiding side-stepping distractions. How quaint it is to say learned words and properly improper greetings as a way of saving facelessness. This earth and its customs are strange in their structure, but it’s all no more than a point of view. And if you look to the sky and breathe fresh air and pause and listen and watch, it will all seem so small; it will all disappear.