There’s an act to waking up, or rather a play, in a few acts. In act one we’re introduced to you, and you’re enigmatic to say the least. We’re concerned at this stage that the narrative is not all we had expected. In act 2 you’re more coherent and you’ve had a smoke and a shit. By act 3 you’re all grown up, with a cup of Costa Rican in one hand, a cigarette in the other, a crisp white shirt and a Paul Smith tie on. By act four you’re standing at some traffic lights wondering what would happen if you just stepped forward, or fell, used your momentum to arc in front of the oncoming indifferent traffic, how this act of self vandalism would affect your fellow city dwellers. In this we are presented our dramatic ending. Your ever repeating inner videologue of your own death. And sometimes it doesn’t even seem important. We’ve learned something about ourselves here, about the ambivalence of society. Of the soulless sojourn.