Surreal awoke. Surreal was a young man, handsome, and well-tuned. He perused. He lived in San Francisco. He strolled around his apartment, gazing at belongings. It was a fine day that moment, but the country had been taking a plunge down whatever lane could hardly be called memory. That is to say that things had taken an improper twist. At the news broadcast he surveyed, he noted how the pundit opined, with no insignificant reason, about the increased likelihood of civil war.

Still, things like this hardly troubled Surreal, because he was attuned to matters of chaos and disfunction, and accordingly fancied himself capable of regulating them. He'd certainly done so before. Surreal picked up a pen on the stand beside him, and tossed it, catching it easily.