I walk up the carpeted stairs to the bathroom of the bar I used to work at years ago, and a wave of calm washes over me. Have I stumbled, unwittingly, into an answer? Life's riddles do pose themselves at odd moments, but stranger still are the moments in which they solve themselves. I pull the handle to the door that guards the restaurant lobby, brass-plated and smudged by foreign fingerprints. I enter as one who has been charged with the responsibility of the place. To the restroom, I go. I approach the urinal with confidence, and uncork my flaccid penis to spray forth its meager offering. The urinal accepts me unconditionally. I am home. These walls who know me so well welcome me back with their familiar words and colors. I know this place. I feel...happy here. Regretfully, my visit ends. I soap my hands and disavow all knowledge of the events which moments ago I had foresworn. My sanctuary mourns not my exit, nor bids me hasten my return. It simply stands, a monument to what was. Outside, in the hallway, I hear the incessant chatter of catty bitches who mock their purported friends and ravage verbally their enemies. I am disturbed, but my condition is not perturbed. It is the nature of this place. I cannot be shocked. After all the days and all the hours, there is nothing shocking here to be seen. I dry my hands, and step gingerly into the mist.