Ants crawl on my body as The End by The Doors plays on my laptop: "All the children are insane, waiting for the summer rain..."

I often play this song to feel better. I often play this song to snap me out of melancholic deep funks. Funk. Funk us. Funk us, down by the blues bus. The killer, the killer he pulled out a gun, last night, near where I used to live, near where my kid hangs out with his friends. The killer he shot someone in the face, because the someone had nothing to give, nothing to give; so he shot him.

"Father?"
"Yes, son?"
"I want to kill you."

What kind of a man would shoot another man in the face because he had nothing to give? What's wrong with the human race?

It was only one ant that crawled on my body. He was looking for a cookie. He was looking for a chocolate chip cookie. I didn't have a cookie, so I killed him. I killed the ant.

"This is the..."