I would walk everywhere, but I don’t want to breathe our air. I consequently drive everywhere. Where is the air? In my eyes, in my hair. No. Where is the AIR? It’s in cans for the dying. We all die. We are all dying. Where is the air? For you, it’s with the trees, so it’s up and over there. Call me when you know your suspected cause of death. I’ll open a can just for you. I’ll open happiness just for you. No one will ask you to share your sad, sad can of air.