No time to explain!
Fortinbras sits listlessly at the computer clicking around through facebook. He finds it comforting some nights to wonder about his high school peers, see their pictures of new friends in new places. Looking at them makes him feel he's never left them, but rather been replaced by a sorting machine that places people in places and places in people, the balance always coming out just right. Its karma. Its a well managed assembly line. Its a database. In a way he's the Indian boy at Harvard with the pot marks and slightly spiked hair. He's the sorority girl in the matching blue windbreaker at Loyola. He's the hipster kid jamming on trashcans outside NYU. "God Bless America," he thinks to himself, "God Bless America".
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