You go crying to strangers

Crying cat
You cry when you see stock photography

You run further still into a residential area. You go door-to-door looking for milk and not finding it. “Doo doo doo doo. Doo doo doo doo,” you whistle eerily, for there are no milkmen. Nor are there dreamers, artists, astronauts. Nor are there people who know how to spell words that sound alike. For this is America, and spelling doesn’t matter anymore.

In the distance, you see the silhouette of a man with a kite. You run to him. You rub into his legs, purring and hoping he will feed you. He appears to be a Benjamin Franklin impersonator.

“Well, hello there, little guy!” he says. “No, I haven’t got anything for you.” He pats you on the head and starts telling George Washington about discount furniture in honor of Presidents Day. He insinuates strongly that Benjamin Franklin was a president. For in this dimension, no one is needed who knows which presidents there have been.

“Oh no!” you gasp, holding on to your brain with both paws. You dart head-down through the window of a nice, suburban house. It appears to be inhabited. “Phew! The crazy nightmare is over!”

Suddenly a woman is holding a briefcase over her chest and smiling vacantly while an African American fellow uses a laptop. They are frozen in time. Stock photographs on the very websites of so-called graphic design companies. They’re everywhere! One on a telephone headset works at the bank, the hotel, and the Suicide Hotline.

Alone among the soulless denizens of this anonymous American town, you weep for all eternity.

The End