I wake up.

In an unusual move, I peep through the curtains to catch a glimpse of the starlit sky. The moon must've risen a certain way tonight.

I pull a book called If I Were a Runaway from under my pillow and leave the house with nothing but vigorous feet and an aimless mind.

The roads look like runways; except, they're dark. They certainly look better suited for crash lands than take-offs. I linger in front of the playground for a while. When I realise that I'm not used to enjoying the sight of children pulling their knees to their chin and burying their heads in them so as to compensate for a forgotten mask, I leave. The glass doors of huge state-owned buildings and corporate headquarters fascinate me; they seem to be the only clean thing about them. But now, as I stand in front of one, I don't see angels behind me in my reflection. I mean, my foggy glasses certainly did create the atmosphere for an apparition but whatever.

I continue to walk, making sure to step on every living creature that I look down upon, both literally and figuratively. The fact that I end up in front of a head-shrinker's clinic seems so unrelated to this chronicle that it could as well be a part of a different narrative. But now that I'm here I decide to fetch some drug samples to cure my mind of this aimlessness. I enter, and looking right through me, he says, "Are you sure that it is your wandering mind that brings you here, and not your stagnant heart?"