Picture this: thirty kids in a two-story house in the Poconos. They’re little bandits. Their parents think they’re somewhere else. It’s the popular crew: but half the baseball stars are homosexuals, half the cheerleaders want to be housewives, and the football guys are putting on five pounds a day. They have to carry little Megan outside for some fresh air; she’s drunk, got ditched by a wide receiver. She looks at the mountain stars, thinks (her friend imagines) nothing thoughts about nothing. Eighteen years later: one of the homosexual baseball stars is now at a mountain retreat in the Poconos. He gets carried out by his lover to look at the stars, drunk on Mimosas. Nothing gets thought about nothing again. What do I think? I’m writing a letter to Nietzsche. Ask him.