He crossed two decades of graffiti, stood at the end of the pier, and tossed his hat into the churning, icy waters. Then he removed his scarf and his gloves and his jacket and his sweater, his long underwear, his shoes, his socks, his jeans, and finally his boxer briefs, flinging them one after another into the lake.
The weather battered him, but he didn't care. He'd taken every shock the world could offer, and he'd borne them all. And still he felt the pain, the confusion, the misunderstanding, all the horrors of being alive, of being forced into the same body for the same years, over and over again. He stood there against the grey-black sky - naked, freezing, and alone.
