The saddest thing, the way you keep waking, br walking outdoors to the saddest transport br that carries you for miles to where you br don’t want to go, your papers ready, or br your bag in hand, crossing the boulevards, br obeying the signs—and sad the way you are br just right for schedules, for hours that compel, br and clothes that fit tight. Now that you’ve been born br to this place, the hours grow by days, by sun, br by rain. Now you wonder when they’ll let you br go home, and that’s the saddest thing ever.