I have never been to New York. But here, I’m going to look at a wall with a window. My hair is short now, I am thirty, I am at a wall with a window. My brother’s dog died today. A fifteen-year old chocolate lab named Kazak from Kurt Vonnegut’s novel The Sirens of Titan. His breathing labored. But it was a stable laboring. He labored at night when they slept. The decision was made. I have never been to New York. But now I’m going to look at a wall with a window. My hair is short now, I am thirty, I am at a wall with a window. The dog of space. Kazak. “This is where New York is” (pointing). Not everyone can say they have never been to New York, eaten New York pizza, or more importantly, never stayed in one of those hotels, on the top floor, or have never been the one looking out the window (pointing), looking down on different places in the city (pointing), as if to say “I have never been there for comedy, to heal my soul.” “And this place over here, to have the best orange chicken.” I have never died before. My hair is short now, and I am at a wall with a picture. It is of New York. It looks like a circuit board on a teardrop. This is somewhat similar to how I feel. I think. A circuit board and a teardrop. I do not know exactly how to stack these two objects. I know I do not want to drench the circuit board with the tear drop. I have never died before. My hair is short now (pointing), I am thirty. I have never been to New York. The dog of space. You are going, Kazak. I am at a wall with a window. A window with a picture of New York. A window with a picture of a circuit board on a teardrop. A weeping nervous pin. My hair is short now, I am at a wall with a dog in space moving in wave phenomena. I have never been to New York. I have never died before (pointing).