A man sits alone in a park. The steel bench he's on is covered with a relatively broad canopy of trees. The wind blowing through their branches produces a subtle sweeping noise along the length of the interconnected foliage. The sun slices through in small rays, taking advantage of the few bare spots in order to ignite the pathway in front of him in small pieces. He procures a newspaper and sets it on the bench next to him, sure to be quiet. He extends both arms on the bench and takes a deep breath, allowing his head to loll on his neck, falling back, gentle as the breeze. He can hear the faint bustle of the wind through the leaves before he lets his breath out. There is no one else around. With his eyes still closed the man reaches into the pocket of his overcoat and removes a small revolver which he places to his temple. Calm and smiling, he pulls the trigger. The click of the firing pin against the empty chamber makes a small noise, an absent-minded pen tap on the table as you struggle with a form at the doctor’s office, a nervous finger when they inform you that you are manic-depressive bipolar with schizoid tendencies and that clinic is your best chance at departing in comfort. Medicated. Separated from the world, its guilt, its eradication of happiness and love. The man places the revolver back into his coat, gathers the newspaper, and walks away.