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All the way down, the bridge to the docks has been covered in trash, which your dear friend has tasked himself with raking into neat little piles. The wind then blows said neat little piles everywhere. He doesn’t seem to care or notice.

Rake, pile, wind. Rake, pile, wind. Over and over. It’s almost Zen. Or is it Sisyphean? You lose track of time and sink into introspection. Soon, that will be you. Working for the man, going nowhere. Working on metal ships, wearing a metal suit, living on a metal island, never experiencing the thrill of adventure or accomplishment. Nothing, nobody, forever.