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At the center of the city was a sacred garden, older than anyone knew. Concealed behind stone and locked, golden gates, legend stated access was given to a select few: only the most pious of people. But, it was unknown by whose authority one might be granted permission, and no one had ever been witnessed coming or going.

Surrounding the walls, where the commoners walk, heaps of garbage sprawled over the ground. Apparently, though it had never been seen, each scrap had been hurled from inside. The many piles primarily contained what would not be considered typical trash: posters like those promoting psychedelic concerts, manuals written in an ancient script, and the blood red peels of pomegranates.

For many years I passed this place, wondering what lie beyond its cold, gray walls. There were times I would stop to search for movement and listen for sounds, craving a sign of someone living within. But I never found any proof of life in the garden, apart from the garbage outside.

Then, one day, I decided to climb a particularly large pile of waste. On top I could stretch to peek past the stone and see a thick canopy of trees and a few buildings in the distance. From inside a cool breeze blew fresh against my face and I breathed more deeply than ever before. It was as though my lungs had been filled for the very first time. The air, crisp and clean, was a divine contrast from the stifling heat of the city and the stench of the trash beneath my feet.

Suddenly and viciously a rat bit my ankle. I lost my footing and fell, plummeting into the pile of papers and rotting pomegranate peels. And as I lay in the garbage I was attacked by a thousand more rats, gnashing their teeth and gnawing at my flesh. Through agonizing pain, and though utterly helpless, I couldn’t help but laugh as I screamed, "Where is a goddamn snake when you need one?"