In the dead yellow of the streetlamps at the station in the dark, in the coldness of early morning, there is a poster of someone with their arm flung out at a strange angle, behind which a run of lopsided houses, one with its window slightly open, and some frozen cars beneath it. I do not know whose cars they are, or why the window isn't closed. Yet why should I not know, and be powerless to know? What have I done wrong, that I cannot perceive the lifeless harmony of all things?