 I try to make up amazing composition number 319 as I unlock my bike at the end of the day, but it all turns out wrong. I imagine a choir, like the one in the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth, singing lyrics that become more and more ridiculous as more plastic animals appear. The presses, the plants, the places where things get made, the places where people all turn to smoke. Those are the places that end up manufacturing other people like me.