There is a certain feeling that creeps upon me when exposed to people. It happens most in the flow, the stream of bodies walking the pavement, though it is present too in other places of congregation yet minimal interaction. Not a distaste for people in general, not really, but more a leakage, an intrusion into my overly alert senses from all the folks just too close, little splashes that threaten to drown me in alien thoughts. It makes me wonder, how can the Toreador stand it? To aspire to read others' minds and to know their secrets, to see what piece each person is in the ever-shifting engine that powers society. I suppose it is ego, that allows them to look down on others, to consider them simple when their thoughts and desires and wants are really anything but simple. Dismissable, I guess, to those with the ego to back it up. "I'm important," that ego claims, "more so than the rest. Show me their secrets." Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sport such an ego, to have that confidence in my veins. But no, I have enough trouble with my own piece of the world without deluding myself that my intellect is capable of understanding the other pieces that make up the whole. The pieces I do see are fragmented, they don't join together, smaller parts of the engine which make no sense out of contact with their adjacent parts, the linkages invisible but always present. The engine is turning, and I wonder if there is anyone who actually knows its purpose, let alone has their hands at the controls. What part of an engine has no contact with the other pieces? Am I a spare, ready to replace a critical piece if it breaks? Or am I the broken part, my replacement already settled into place, put aside, easier to replace than repair? Or am I just worn, slipping, failing to fulfil my duty even as I wonder what it is? What is my function? Why can't I find a place where I fit? -Mickey. "Fortunately I have come across an answer, which is go away and never leave a trace." -The White Stripes