you approach a door. beyond the door you hear sobbing. wailing, even. it draws you in like a siren song, and you open it. inside sits a person. they are wearing a white t-shirt and they are sitting hunched over a table, surrounded by ripped pieces of cloth. you cannot see their face. but the tears are staining the table. the tears are staining the t-shirt.
"what's wrong," you ask.
they turn to look at you. the front of the t-shirt is ripped apart.
"oh, me?" they say. it's not a question. they know what they must say.
they bend over and pick up one of the pieces of fabric. on it you can see the eyes of a duck.
"i was the boss california."
they take a shaky breath.
"but no more."