My name is Daniel Webster. I’m 35. Lexington, Massachusetts. Flat across from Trulose street. Tragically underpaid. I don’t speak; I whimper in a self-piteous tone that makes me vomit as the upward inflection of all my thoughts, ideas, and dreams bears its resigned neck and renounces any semblance of conviction or drive while wallowing in compunction for its very existence. I am a whimpering blur in a dazzling panorama of sighs, cries, and insincere lullabies that violently clamor around the lampposts in daylight, falling asleep to the sounds of an omnipotent, corporate drain. As I tear down the blinds over my mattress, I can see rags, suits, and the dying wondering around the apartment’s base and that’s how I know that I’m in the shit-dead center of it all, in the eye of an abysmal gravity. The choking clouds of fear rattle down my throat and I throw open the window and bring myself onto the ledge to celebrate my own lack of a voice.