Walking through Wheatland Park, I wonder how I've been chosen to be alive. The chill of the air makes my ears sting a little. Streetlights illuminate the undersides of sycamores with a tangerine glow. I hear silence, and the silence being rippled by a train in the distant prairie. Deep within me I realize that the lights and the sycamores, the train, the air, and even the silence would exist here without me, and after me. The picnic tables and charcoal grills bear no concepts to suffer. And so I leave the park, and as I do, everything I leave goes back to being nothing.