A postage stamp used like a Band-Aid to suture the edges of a paper wound. And on the coffee table a glass brimming with tap water trembles from a philanthropist’s footsteps, footsteps galvanized by a frantic pace, directing him to grab items off the shelves and fidget with price tags fastened, loosely. Window shoppers are onlooking, hot breaths trailing from lungs taking pause to appreciate the philanthropist flailing sundries, unknown to him, unowned by him. Shop owner bites her lip. She moans and twiddles a loose string descending off her plain white t-shirt with her fingers, looping the dead stitch around her index and middle fingers. Philanthropist stoops to lift a lone penny off the ground. A centimeter of his underwear peeks out from his khaki waistline. Window shoppers are onlooking and curl their faces with disgust at such a vulgar display. Philanthropist senses a dozen eyes observing his exposure, he turns red and lifts his waistline to his nipples. Shop owner sighs with relief as he exits the store. Nothing was accomplished that day, nothing of value.