Every night I would go outside and sleep in the car. I'd put on my sweats that were cut off at the ends and too short, and my Scooby Doo socks, and walk outside across the street from a house and sleep in there. I'd go back inside the house on a regular basis through the night, though, I'm not sure for what. It was best I sleep outside - at least there I could smoke cigarettes without bothering anyone.

It was a special car, fully automated. I didn't understand the controls, and it ended up resembling a scooter sometimes. The dashboard had all these controls, fully automated, and the car stopped and started purely by the tension of my muscles. It took some getting used to, though, as I drove the streets of Boston and the traffic sped by me too fast. All the cars were honking and I began to get paranoid, unable to move my car at any faster rate. "You're slouching," he said, and I sat up straight and began to get some speed.

I'm inside my parent's bedroom and there's a large stereo set upon a chair or table. I'm burning a CD of Frente!, but my favorite song is missing. I remember it's in the other directory, but I can't find it, as I rummage through the assorted hairspray bottles and perfumes on the bathroom counter. I figure it's okay, and I set it aside, promising to finish it later.