“What are you looking for?” the Master asked, placing the rings and loops of the pads of his finger to the ice-chilled window.

“I don’t know,” said Peter. “Who says I have to be looking for anything?”

“Well, Nature demands it,” the knowledgeable Master said, without explanation.

The glass was cool beneath Master Mitchel’s outstretched fingers. The fingers caressed the glass carelessly, as if they wallowed in the lack of warmth, as if they basked in the icy air that congealed against the glass.

Peter looked out the window, ignoring his master’s probing touch upon the glass.

“Nature demands that I search for something out a window?” Peter questioned bitterly. His eyes flowed over the outer light of the city. From this high up, he could see straight out to the highway that surrounded the city like a giant twisting serpent.

He could see down through the windows into houses to invade the private lives of unsuspecting mice. He could watch a man beat his wife day after day and wonder why she never did anything about it. Across the street he watched young children light scrolls of wrapped herbs while he wondered what that was like.

A few times he saw people open up the windows of nearby buildings and look out. These were the fun ones. Would they or wouldn’t they jump? That was the question. Sometimes they did; sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes, they would debate with themselves so long that Peter would turn away long before they formulated their ultimate decision.

“Nature demands,” Master said, “that a man searches outside only to find something on the inside.”

“Did Nature say that to you herself?” Peter asked.

Presently, he watched the embraced figures of a man and wife in their hotel room. Slowly, they tore cloth from flesh, mouth pressed down to skin.

“And what if she did?” asked Master Mitchel. He turned his light blue eyes on the boy Peter. “Would you believe it if I said it?”

Peter breathed in, and held the breath. The sweet conditioned air flowed into his lungs. He let it out slowly. He felt it bleed softly through his nostrils.

“Would you say it if I believed it?”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” said Master Mitchel. Those aged blue eyes burned down into Peter’s mind. “I wouldn’t have to.”

Peter reached out with his own hand and placed it palm flat against the glass. The cold sensation that had touched Master Mitchel now flowed through Peter’s skin. He embraced it.

“What am I looking for?” Peter questioned himself.

“Yes, what?”

Peter delved into his own mind. He tried to grasp onto a point of focus amidst the straining stream of his consciousness.

“I don’t know,” Pete said.

Master Mitchel sighed.

“I guess,” Peter started up, “I’m looking for a world that doesn’t exist. A world where I could be accepted easily, without the strain that I always have. A world where I could look out my window and not see such pain and misery staring back at me. A world where the technology was not so prominent as to kill me from overdose.”

Peter knew that he was dying for a long time, and knew exactly what it was that was killing him. It was technology. Technology had stolen from him, his soul, his health. It had poisoned his blood and his lungs. The very air he breathed in contained micro contaminants. And his death was as ironic as his life. He was addicted to it. The air conditioning, the particle-board, the gas exhaustions. He was addicted to all of it. He was plagued by city-sickness.