As almost all hats are.

Public transit is the most tremendous liminal space, where people incise others--their bags, bustle, and temperature revising the atmosphere, and everyone is frictive but pretends like they are the only one existing there. Estranging themselves, looking out the window, at the floor, their phone, the advertisements, anywhere but the person whose knee they are leaning against or whose noise and breath are curling around the back of their shoulder, with every other existing for the others as abstracted phenomena.

I can hear you now.

I returned home from a short trip of shopping errands for an axe, a large roll of duct tape, and some packages of garbage bags, and set them out in my bedroom at the rear of the house, whose large sliding glass doors are uncurtained to the new neighbours I have across the backyard. Someone must think someone is up to something.

The concept of that which does not exist.