A man lives his life in a field of doors. He spends all his time walking through them. First he goes one way, then he goes back; sometimes he skips around at random. The man wanders through the doors for years and years and years, going in and out, back

That was the first time I went over the wall. No bird opened its mouth to chirp. No wind blew. I staggered a little on the stony edge. And dropped down. I changed in a cafe. Shaved. Emerged as that rare thing: a new man. My clothes were old, saved for

happily fling Molotov cocktails// against ICE agents in armored vehicles/ and sing the pain of their burning deaths/ as triumph against asininity.