It’s hot. And it’s only May. The air is heavy and for once I’m not the only sweaty person on the street who isn’t running. It’s ok to sweat if you’re running around in ugly and tight clothes. It’s a thing. If you aren’t doing that and you’re sweaty you’re just being rude.

I’ve got coffee on my mind, Chet Baker in my ear, and this nagging feeling that I need to cut my toenails. I can feel them pressing against my shoes.

I’m thinking of what my toenails must look like, hideous, monstrous, extra long, who knows, when I see the flock moving away from the wall ahead.

Everyone moves in unison on cramped sidewalks that are half the size they should be in the city. When there’s a disturbance, you know. You feel the crowd shifting. You yourself shift when you get there. It’s natural. So naturally I’m drawn to what they’re avoiding.

In my ears I hear a piano, some drums. When I started walking I was listening to a trumpet but it’s not there anymore. I hope it comes back. I know it will, I’ve heard the song many times. But I’m still allowed to look forward to it coming back. You can’t take that away from me.

A man is sitting on some kind of window ledge. He’s staring straight ahead blankly. I don’t know if he’s blinking. His eyes are moving back and forth and up and down. I finally see him blink. That’s good, I think, otherwise those eyes will dry out.

His hands are in front of him. Raised up. Palms outward. He’s like a mime but not quite. His fingers twitch. He moves his hands a little. He’s mumbling something. He’s in a trance maybe. It’s a mystery I’ll never solve. I slow down just the slightest to try and understand.

It’s unsettling. I can’t get the idea out of my head that he’s either a mime or some grotesque and cruel mimicry of one. Then it hits me: aren’t we all?