You are standing in the middle of the intersection at four in the morning, your hands bleeding not from a wound but from the sheer friction of holding onto the concept of truth in a city that has decided to digest it, and you are screaming at the police officer who is not even looking at you but at the surveillance camera mounted on the corner of the building across the street, a camera that looks like a mechanical eye with a permanent cataract, and you are telling him that the thing you stole was not a wallet or a car but the ability to be seen, and he is telling you that you are in violation of municipal code four-seventeen regarding public disturbance and that the fines for which are currently being calculated by an algorithm that does not sleep and does not forgive and does not care that your name is Elias Thorne and that you have been running for three weeks without sleeping because sleep is a place where the ghosts of the people you failed to protect come to sit on your chest and ask you why you let them fall, and you are telling him that you are not disturbing the peace you are disturbing the silence that they have built over the bodies of the workers who were crushed in the factory collapse in the industrial district last Tuesday, and he is telling you that the factory collapse was an accident and that the investigation is ongoing and that you are obstructing justice, and you are laughing, a sound that tears something open in your throat, and you are telling him that justice is a machine made of gears and oil and that you have seen the blueprints and that the blueprints say that the machine is designed to grind down the small parts to keep the large parts turning, and he is telling you to put your hands where he can see them or he will use his taser, and you are putting your hands up, not because you are afraid of the electricity but because you want him to see that you have nothing left to give, that you are empty, that you are a hollowed-out vessel that has been scraped clean by the wind of their indifference, and you are feeling the cold rain on your face and it feels like needles, like the needles of the medical instruments that they used to try to revive the workers before they gave up, before they covered the bodies with blue tarps and drove them away to a place that has no name, a place that is just a hole in the earth where they put the things that they do not want to look at, and you are thinking about the moths, the pale moths that you used to keep in a jar on your windowsill, the ones that were drawn to the light of your lamp even though the light was a trap, even though the light would burn them, and you are thinking about how they did not know that the light was not a source of warmth but a source of destruction, and you are thinking about how you were one of those moths, flying into the light of the city, flying into the light of the people who told you that if you worked hard enough, if you were good enough, if you were clean enough, you would be saved, and you are thinking about how you were wrong, how you were so terribly wrong, and you are thinking about how the light is not a savior, the light is a liar, and you are thinking about how you are going to burn, you are going to burn until there is nothing left of you but ash, and the ash will blow away in the wind, and the wind will carry it to the factory, to the hole in the earth, and it will rest there, finally, where it belongs, and the officer is telling you to stop talking and to put your hands on the wall, and you are putting your hands on the wall, and the wall is cold and wet and it smells like urine and old grease, and you are feeling the vibration of the city through the concrete, a low hum that is like a heartbeat, a sick and slow and tired heartbeat, and you are thinking about Margaret, your friend, the one who watched, the one who stood by the window with her cup of tea and watched you run, watched you scream, watched you bleed, and she did not help you, she did not call the police, she did not try to stop you, she just watched, and you are thinking about why she watched, why she stood there with her eyes wide and her mouth open and her heart beating fast, and you are thinking that maybe she was afraid, maybe she was afraid that if she moved, if she helped, she would be burned too, she would be turned into ash, she would be gone, and you are thinking that she is still there, she is still standing by the window, she is still watching, and you are thinking that you are going to forgive her, you are going to forgive her for watching, because watching is a kind of love, a terrible and quiet and distant kind of love, and you are thinking that you are going to stop fighting, you are going to stop screaming, you are going to stop trying to hold onto the truth, because the truth is too heavy, the truth is too sharp, the truth is going to cut you to pieces, and you are going to let it go, you are going to let the truth fall, you are going to let it fall into the hole in the earth, you are going to let it join the others, the workers, the moths, the light, and you are going to stand there, in the rain, with your hands on the wall, and you are going to wait for the ash to blow away, and you are going to wait for the wind to come, and you are going to wait for the end, and the officer is telling you that you are under arrest, and you are nodding, because you know that this is the end, this is the final turn of the gear, this is the click of the lock, and you are smiling, a small and sad and broken smile, and you are thinking about the pale moths, and you are thinking about how they finally stopped flying, and you are thinking about how they were at rest, and you are thinking that you are going to be at rest too, soon, very soon, and the rain is getting heavier, and the lights are getting brighter, and the hum of the city is getting louder, and you are closing your eyes, and you are letting go.

The officer pulls you from the wall, his hands rough and firm on your shoulders, and he pushes you forward, toward the cruiser, and you stumble, your feet slipping on the wet asphalt, and you feel the cold metal of the handcuffs bite into your wrists, and you are being marched toward the car, and you are looking at the street, the empty street, the dark street, and you are looking for Margaret, you are looking for her window, the one on the third floor with the yellow curtain, and you see it, you see the light, and you see the shape of a person standing there, and you know it is her, you know it is Margaret, and you are looking at her, and she is looking at you, and you are trying to smile, you are trying to tell her that it is okay, that you are going to be okay, that you are going to be at rest, and she is pressing her hand against the glass, and you can see her mouth moving, you can see her lips forming words, and you know what she is saying, you know she is saying I am sorry, and you know she is saying I could not stop it, and you know she is saying I love you, and you are nodding, and you are getting into the back of the car, and the door slams shut, and the sound is like a gunshot, a final and decisive shot, and you are sitting in the back, and the officer is sitting in the front, and the car is pulling away, and you are watching the city slide past the window, the buildings, the streets, the people, the lights, and you are feeling the vibration of the engine, and you are feeling the cold of the metal seat, and you are feeling the weight of the handcuffs, and you are thinking about the moths, and you are thinking about the light, and you are thinking about the ash, and you are thinking about the wind, and you are closing your eyes, and you are waiting, and you are waiting, and you are waiting, and the car is driving, and the city is passing, and the night is falling, and you are gone, you are gone, you are gone.

You are in the station now, the fluorescent lights are buzzing overhead, a sound that is like a swarm of angry bees, and the air smells like stale coffee and sweat and fear, and you are sitting in a chair, your hands still cuffed, and the officer is standing in front of you, looking at his watch, and he is tapping his foot, and he is breathing heavily, and he is not looking at you, he is looking at the wall, at the poster that says Respect the Law, and you are looking at him, and you are seeing the sweat on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hand is trembling as he holds his pen, and you are thinking that he is afraid, you are thinking that he is afraid of you, you are thinking that he is afraid of what you represent, the thing that cannot be contained, the thing that cannot be controlled, the thing that burns, and you are thinking that you are not angry, you are not sad, you are not afraid, you are just tired, you are just so tired, and you are looking at the poster, and you are looking at the word Respect, and you are thinking that respect is a lie, that respect is a mask, that respect is a way to hide the blood, and you are thinking that you are going to take the mask off, you are going to tear it off, you are going to show them the blood, you are going to show them the truth, and you are opening your mouth, and you are starting to speak, and your voice is quiet, and it is clear, and it is strong, and you are saying that you are not going to sign anything, you are not going to say anything, you are not going to fight, you are just going to sit here, and you are just going to wait, and you are just going to be, and you are looking at the officer, and he is looking at you, and for a second, just a second, you see it in his eyes, you see the recognition, you see the understanding, you see the shared pain, the shared fear, the shared despair, and then he looks away, and he picks up the phone, and he starts to dial, and the sound of the dial tone is like a siren, a siren that is calling for help, a siren that is calling for the end, and you are closing your eyes, and you are thinking about the pale moths, and you are thinking about how they are finally at rest, and you are thinking that you are going to be at rest too, and you are opening your eyes, and you are looking at the ceiling, and you are counting the tiles, one, two, three, four, and you are waiting for the wind, and you are waiting for the ash, and you are waiting for the light to go out, and you are waiting for the night to come, and you are waiting for the end, and the end is here, the end is now, the end is you, and you are gone.