So, once there was a baby. It had no mother. It had no father. It had no sisters or brothers. It was alone, except for a cat and a dog that fed it. And it knew nothing but warmth and cold and pleasure and discomfort. And time passed and the baby grew into a child. And the child discovered television and learned about Teletubbies and Sesame Street and Animaniacs, and it thought about how wonderful the world must be. And the child grew into an adolescent. And it could walk and clap its hands and grin and scowl. And the adolescent ventured out into the world. It found a train station and watched the trains come and go. It didn’t know that they went from one place to another. It only knew that they disappeared, around a curve in one direction, into the horizon in the other. And the adolescent wandered onto the tracks and was nearly crushed, but was rescued by a businessman, whose briefcase was lost under the train. And the businessman found that the adolescent could not speak; it could only mew and grunt. And the businessman advised a security guard. And the guard advised a policewoman. And the policewoman called an ambulance. And the adolescent was confined and puzzled over and cared for. And the adolescent grew into an adult. And the adult managed to wander off, during the shift of a negligent nurse. And the adult found a park and watched the squirrels climb trees. And the adult climbed after them. But the branches could not support its weight. And they cracked. And the adult fell and broke its neck and died, never having been elderly, and only briefly having known the wonderful world it had seen on TV.