An older man in a sand-colored sport coat came to my door and knocked. His knock was restrained but confident and when I opened the door I found that he was, too. He informed me of an event that was taking place, a worldwide event, about which he was spreading the word and distributing literature. I looked down from his face, skin wrinkled but well-maintained, passed my gaze over the lapels of his sand-colored sport coat, down his arm and towards the pamphlet he held in his wrinkled-but-well-maintained hand. I cracked the screen door so he could carefully place the literature into my outstretched hand. I looked at it, but only to fulfill a vaguely-understood societal obligation. I didn't read any words in that moment; after all, the sand-colored man was already telling me what I needed to know.

I smiled, he smiled, we jointly allowed the screen door to close, I wished him a good day. Back in my room, I considered the pamphlet, dry and plain like the man. I thought that maybe I owed it to him to read through it, out of respect for the efforts of the man, the printer, the tree, and the others. But the man was gone, the printer had moved onto other projects, and the tree was no more. So I let it drop to the floor with the others, and I sat back down at my desk.