A crappy painting of a girl in headphones standing on the crest of a mountain, surrounded by butterflies. This is what passes for art these days? Seriously, thought Darren, I've seen better finger paintings.

As he made his way from picture to picture, Darren realized that art wasn't really his thing. Eventually, he made his way back to the entrance of the labyrinthine museum and stepped back out into the practical, utilitarian world of the city in which he lived.

Still thinking about the butterfly painting, Darren wandered through the streets of the bustling, monochrome city, occasionally bumping elbows with oncoming pedestrians, and dismissing them with a muffled grunt. He was feeling a little hungry, which meant he also felt a little bit grumpy, since these two feelings typically accompanied each other for Darren.

The smells of a dirty water hot dog cart baited Darren, and he stepped up to the burly man and ordered a couple of dogs with mustard and onion. As he munched, he contemplated whether or not hot dogs were sandwiches. While technically ingredients encased in bread, he had a difficult time thinking of a hot dog as anything more than a hot dog. This struck Darren as vaguely Freudian.

And that's