Camus once wrote that the only true freedom is the brief moment a man experiences after being sentenced to death—and that suicide is the only real philosophical question.

I carry these two lines with me on my way to work, through the desolate streets, blending into the flow of thousands of drifting human selves. The world blurs before me as chronic pain wraps around my entire body—especially my lower back and legs.

A constant ringing in my head. My lips are dry, and I fight the inevitability of standing on this crowded train.

What does any of it mean?

Some are lost in books, most glued to their phones, a few asleep—exhausted, bored, or hollowed out by meaninglessness.

I tilt my head back and stare at the subway ceiling. How I wish I could see the sky.

Despite the density, the closeness, the pressing heat of bodies—everyone around me seems unbearably alone.

The body means nothing here. In this big city, you dissolve into a mass of human dough, trading your time just to stay alive.

No one really loves you. No one. At best, you might be interesting to someone for a brief, flickering moment. But that limitation—that unavoidable impermanence—is what defines your very self.

Your body doesn’t matter here. And your soul? It’s utterly alone.

At court, I see them all—criminals, the condemned, the wronged. The wealthy in their tailored suits, shackled and broken. Cops everywhere. Aging judges playing God.

What does any of it mean?

My work as a lawyer is sometimes laughable. I write page after page trying to convince someone that what my client did was right—or that what someone else, whom I’ve never met, did was wrong.

And who knows? That other person might be someone I’d laugh with over a beer at the bar next door. Maybe we’d all laugh together—judges, lawyers, cops, defendants, plaintiffs—if we just met in the bar instead of the courtroom.

But no—we meet here, by choice, to become enemies.

What does any of it mean?

If solitude has given me anything, it’s the gift of silence. Peace. I bought noise-canceling headphones, turning myself—deliberately—into someone deaf to the world, opening only my inner ears.

How beautiful it is to watch the chaos unfold—to observe everything, amid the stampede and the breathless chase—and narrate it silently in your mind, or store it for later to write down.

I practice irony. Irony and indifference. They’re the weapons of the strong who’ve been defeated.

We were defeated by love.
By our fragility.
By our deep hunger for warmth and connection, for someone—anyone—to care.

So we turned irony against them.

What does any of it mean?

I leave the courthouse. Stand in the middle of the street. I lift my head toward the sky—only to be met by the glare of skyscrapers, their mirrored facades and massive screens cutting me off.

It ruins everything.

The sky left this world years ago.

I head to my favorite Irish pub. What I love most about it is that the bartender never speaks to you—not a single word. For a simple reason: they serve only one kind of beer.

There’s no menu. No options. Just raise your hand to show how many glasses you want. Perfect.

I gaze at the worn walls, covered in old articles and photos of celebrities who once spent time here.

But again—what does any of it mean?
I don’t know.

The noise rises slowly, until it’s nearly a scream. Laughter, cackling, weeping, whispering, murmurs—all blurring into one great human hum.

I slip on my headphones. Turn my head and spot someone I’m sure I saw in court today.

He smiles briefly. I turn away.

Instead, I watch the bubbles on the surface of my beer rise to the glass’s edge and disappear into small circles.

Everyone is crushed.
Everyone is stacked on top of each other.
Everyone is running.
Everyone is searching for someone.
And everyone is alone.

What binds us all is this one thing:
A collective denial of everything.

An eternal refusal to admit we’re no different than the city’s rats—except that they’re freer.

I open my copy of Camus’s notebooks. My eyes land on a line:

“A true work of art is one that can say the most with the fewest possible words.”