Can you measure the soul? How soft is a hummingbird's insides? Is this a cry for help from the New York Times Metropolitan Diary? Are you truly happy? Did Billy ever find a new job?

These questions, and more, answered in High and About To Be Unemployed 2: Zero Theorem.

Dear Diary,

Fresh carbon dioxide wafts from the smoldering remains of the Greater New York transport box...I breathe deep. Ah, good to be back. Where is Robbie 15? I'm stranded in this puddle of dead phones and battery rain. Where is his place, or mine? Neither here nor there, it would seem. In the distance I observe him being deposited softly into the impact/extract Autonomous Suction Zone. He rights himself, brushing the compressed air from his breast.

I call out to him as he approaches. "You had me fired, 15. I told you I had to go."

"What are you getting on about, Bill?"

"Last night! I had to work in Connecticut in the morning and after those skunk-ass nuggets we burned, I missed my train!"

"...last night? Bill...that was over 60 years ago..."

"What the fuck are you talking about, man? Quit jerking me off!"

"Can't you see, Billy? Look around you—things are different now. I'm older, you're older, this city is older, brother...you gotta let go..."

I fell to my knees as it all sunk in. My careless youthful transgressions, the slow march of time, the power and potency of hydroponically crystallized strands...I've been lost in my own thoughts for over half a decade. Just like that night on the train. I didn't step through the train threshold that fateful morning, but time is a cruel mistress that has no patience for those who wait.

Denial first, of course. This is bullshit! No way. Hoping for a clue—a sign, picture, a love note, anything, God, anything—I reach into my pocket and retrieve my wallet. Ugh! It looks beat to shit—I just bought this damn thing!

Where's my MetroCard? I.D.? This isn't my wallet, couldn't be. It looks nothing like it, not to mention is freaking empty. Robbie 15 must be messing with me. I'll figure this whole thing out soon enough as some kind of stupid prank on me. Yet, something catches my eye.

Poking out from one of the folds, the only thing inside, is a scrap of ancient, yellowing paper, a corner of brittle ink barely legible: "Dear Diary..."