It's a feeling everyone canl relate to, when you are sent to a hotel to pick some anesthesia up at the concierge desk, and the obcenely stupid lady there tells you there is nothing there in your name, but you can tell she's lying. So you stand around, asking if she could look again, knowing that if she didn't see it the first time, she won't see it the second time. But she looks again, and of course, gets some officious looking manager type guy to look as well and they make a big show of how they come up empty.

So you leave, darkly muttering to yourself. Then ten minutes later you get a call wondering what happened to you, and why you didn't pick it up, since it was there over an hour ago, though you insist that they told you otherwise.

Of course, these things have a way of working themselves out. And even if it means a second trip back to complete the mission, it is no big deal. Really at the end of the day, when the flowers are all smelly because it has been record warmth, and the moon is about two days past full, what difference could it possibly make to anyone? Just because some fat headed Irish lady named Yvonne made you run around a bit, it hardly matters now. The descent of night is soft, the air is sweet, and although your honey was a bit out of sorts because you burnt the corn niblets, any problems seem far off.

Sure, you could then lay awake at night vaguely scheming your impotent little schemes, but what is the point of that? They will come to nothing and before too long, you will stop your twitching and be dead, and with it will end all your petty ambitions and a little while after that, no one who ever knew you will be dead too, and you will be erased from Earth, like you were never born at all. So you cheer up a little, and fall alseep, and dream of peeing. And you wake up, hoping not to have wet the bed. Which you didn't. Because once in a while, when you can't take it anymore, life gives you a happy ending.