On the wall, someone had put their phone number. I was urinating in a phonebook of loneliness. The stall was not much more than weak wooden pieces. Every day this was where my drinking from the night before ended up, and then somehow it was recycled in one way or another and we drank it again. This was the feeling: a cycle, a never ending stream. And not just for bathrooms, for everything. It all felt wrong. But why was the urge to leave the cycle so strong? That couldn’t have been brain-fed to me. This must be a natural feeling. But why would it be natural to think the cycle was wrong? The whole system seemed strange, and it felt strange to think the system seemed strange. Everything felt strange. Why was it so out of place? The taps by the sinks had been used hundreds of thousands of times. If our modern world had nymphs they would live inside of things like taps. The water that came out was ridiculously cold, and sobered me up.