Walking along a sidewalk, I tossed my empty coffee cup in a random trashcan when something inside caught my attention. Along the rim of the receptacle was a slightly balled up piece of green paper with a thin black sparkling strip bordering the edges. Curiosity got the best of me, not being able to stop my hands from reaching in and opening it up. In fine cursive writing it said:
In that moment, I knew exactly what you meant. Deep down I’ve always felt that machine-like drudgery of the so called day to day. You explained that it because the “so called Right Track of Life” was a futile effort, something about being a cog in a machine… You went on talking for some time.
But I had stopped listening at that point. Because I understood perfectly well what you meant. And I realized that I wasn’t relating to it in the way you were.
The rest was mostly illegible, due to the dirt and grime smudging the letters from an indeterminate of amount of time spent inside the can. The very bottom of the page was hastily ripped off, a section surely halfway around the universe by now.
Just above the rip I could just barely make out:
That’s why 1+1+1= 2
a single disillusioned specter with no face
1+1+1= 2, a phantom digit
And I threw it back in the trash.