On my way home from work today, I passed a Volkswagen New Beetle, a reissue of the original 1938 version, which Hitler contracted in a desire for a cheap, simple, and mass-produced “people’s car” (literally “volkswagen,” in German), which incidentally — or rather, obliviously — gained immense popularity in the ’60s with the “flower child” generation, who, had they known they were driving a somewhat Nazi car, might’ve opted to walk instead. Part of its marketing campaign involves a little plastic vase at the dash designed to hold a flower, implicitly a daisy, having passed it in the account in mention, except this particular daisy was wilted and dried. I imagined our would-be feel good owner clipping the flower sometime last month, earnestly displaying it like the sole exclamation point of their week, perhaps in anticipation of a date, or a day on the beach with some friends. We define our sense of failure, not just as consumers but as people, both by the feelings we lack and are unable to summon in others. If depression is defined by how unhappy we are, or at least perceive ourselves to be, then happiness as a root concept is culpable. A flower is essentially a hermaphroditic slut, her entire purpose to draw the insect near, as an unwitting agent of his seed. The best insects fly far away from their lovers, as if in shock and fear, pollinating untraversed lands. She could get in her car and never come back, and I would wish her well.