Seconds, half-seconds, quarter-seconds – they crawl by on hands and knees inside the farmhouse of the janitor whose gaze is thrown out the window, into the wind, looking for a flash of plastic in the brand new world that somehow stood up around him.  The janitor, now just part of a cellophaned landscape, just a piece of trash, a relic of the past inhabiting a plastic world.  Stretching his ear, listening closely . . . for a fragment of what humankind has deeded itself.