Throw Away Day Mickey's commuting to work via the train. It's still dark outside as the car lurches and rattles along, and the wan flourescent lights flicker periodically. His fellow occupants are also on their way to various offices in the city save for a young mother and a child wrapped against the damp winter cold in a whimsical striped scarf. They sit close to where he leans against the arm-wrest of the door-side seats as the woman reads to the little boy from a story book. Her gentle expositions are a graceful ribbon fluttering above the grey miasma of early morning transit, the racking of the train and occasional muffled cough. The child is riveted, wide-eyed to the magic of her voice as she slowly turns the pages. Mother: "'And every day the young man rose to continue his journey and the sun rose to greet him.' See the sun, sweetheart? See the sun? Can you point to it?" Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, jamming forefinger and thumb against his eyes and wincing grimly. Mickey (OV): "There used to be a meaning to things before. I know there was... at some point. An aureate glow at the core of it all. A burning center of passion and light. Windmills to fight and flags to advance. There was purpose to action and outcomes of consequence not long before this bloodless banality, this spitty numbness like gum that's been chewed all day, this crushing, vapid hum." Mother: [Cooing] "Where's the sun, honey? -Where-'s the sun?"