## a duck flew by 052718 A duck flew by, low under the oaks and the curly willow, a flying bowling pin, making ridiculous kazoo noises. Then a plane flew overhead, only about a couple dozen football fields away from my stupid face, making a long, midrange-heavy roar. iOS still sucks, All Day IPA is still the best, something out here on this patio smells like infected pussy—but at least I have a patio, I guess—at least I can sit here and watch that plane go by, and wonder if anyone in it is pressing their face against the scratchy little oval, staring down, wondering who I am or what my story is, or trying to imagine other people even having stories like they do—because obviously, from their point of view, they’re the person, and everybody else is the extras— I’m an extra! But I’m for some weird reason putting my whole life’s energy into playing it perfect—for like minimum wage or something—even though no-one’s really even paying attention! WTF is wrong with me? Well. Maybe that invisible person sitting and thinking and existing on that plane on its way to MKE is paying attention, just a little. That’s enough. Quack! Quack quack quack quack quack quack!!