I'm walking through some sort of a flea market. My mother is talking to me. She says we owe someone money. I have to steal some things from the tables so we can pay them back. I see some ceramic bowls that will fit easily into my trench coat. We are looking around. I see a large cardboard box full of photographs. One of them appears to be of me. I walk closer, and begin looking through them. They're pictures of my childhood. I have short hair, although I'm oddly thin, where I was quite overweight through my childhood. There are some other people in these pictures, other children, but none of them seem to notice me. I don't seem to notice that I am being photographed. Are these pictures of the other children, and I just happen to be in the background? I look very sad and lonely.

I look at these pictures, and I start to cry. My mother looks at me. She recognizes that I'm crying, and probably feels sympathy for me, but she does nothing. She seems to know there's nothing she can do, having painfully realized this many years ago. It's not worth the trouble to try and comfort me every time I start to cry. The pictures are getting blurry through my tears. I begin to bawl. It feels as if my life depends on crying as hard as I possibly can.