It sickens me to see the green blades of weed and grass vying to break through the pavement and cement on the side of the highway ramp, and know that I alone cannot lift the heavy rock from Nature's shoulders. Murder. There's "murder" written in graffiti blood all over the walls. The words have dried solid, and we can't peel them away. And when I see those ersatz golden arches from a distance, it reminds me of the rain forests they have plowed over, and the endangered wildlife they have hectored, in exchange for a wasteland and slaughter plants. Murder. Murder. Murder. I boil with anger inside. Where are we? What is this place? Does anyone know anymore? Whom are we? Sometimes I don't recognize myself, or the people around me. Selfish. Sometimes, I feel we are all so selfish. And sometimes, I feel alone within my own thoughts. But these thoughts -- these thoughts -- they haunt me like voices in my ears, always lingering in the back of my mind. Every so often, they get louder, and louder, and louder, and . . . And then, as if someone has slapped me across the face, life falls back into my lap. Whom am I? Hello? Is anybody listening?