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Moments ago, you finished the final page of a novel with no conclusion. The familiar feeling of accomplishment that comes with the task of reading never surfaces, and you feel empty, confused, and inquisitive, but alone in this place you are free to endlessly contemplate the meaning of a work intentionally crafted without. It is well rehearsed to you the saying that art imitates life, but life has a beginning a middle and an end, you wonder, and this book, Junior, possesses none such qualities; at most, you think generously, it had a middle, but what's a middle without its companions? Perhaps you remember incorrectly, and life instead imitates its art. In this case, life appears to be doing a lousy job.

Outside dark windows, a man of undeniable age enjoys his machiatto. You are uncertain of what this particular beverage entails, but he appears content, swigging deeply from a ten-percent-post-consumer-fiber cup, between drags of a cigarette that looks tiny in comparison to his fingers. This kind of person , you hope, could provide you with closure, an end. This man has seen the beginning and the middle, and morbidly, you think, the end. You step out into the snow to join the man.

"Its fucking cold out dude," he says in reply to your arrival.

There will be no conclusions had tonight.