On a winters night as I make myself dinner I suddenly remember that my washing is still on the clothesline. The air is sharp and I'm tired from the day but I muster up the energy to walk into the backyard. The grass is wet from dew, it seeps through my socks and bites the end of my toes with a cold sting. I stare up at the moon and am struck with a deep melancholy for no particular reason. As I stand in a calm despair I hear a sound that lifts me from the fog.
"CHLOE! GET IN THE HOUSE!"
My neighbor is once again yelling at his daughter Chloe. This has become a ritual, usually welcomed by the pulse of his reversing Tesla. The tone in his voice tells me everything I need to know. It is the cry of a man with nothing to lose. The silent rage of someone confined to an invisible cell. He's not really yelling at Chloe, but instead he yells at the life he has lost. Chloe as she stands before him functions as an archetype of lost youth. My neighbor screams in fear at this material omen of which he is creator. Suddenly doing my washing doesn't seem so bad.
Not all heroes wear a cape
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