Oh my gosh, I've started daydreaming again. Everyone has the same haircut, everyone has the same eyes, everything everyone says or writes is secretly about me, even when they have no idea of who I am. Every unfortunate story is poking at my side, saying, "See? See?"

There was tea, but I had coffee anyhow, and it was pretty exciting. We talked about the Death Machine and how he's been getting harder and harder to like, we talked about weddings and the way they make you want to drink things that are out of the ordinary. We talked about voices on the radio and how you hear them for years, and when you finally see the faces they're entirely wrong. I'll never get over Leonard Lopate. I generally really like beards, but he's just got the wrong kind. We talked about a lot more, I guess it had been awhile. We don't spend enough time alone anymore.

Afterward we walked through the lamest street fair of all time. Basically, there was an assortment of hats for men and horrible clothing for children and/or small mermaids. We walked around the block and then down Allen where we passed Mike Myers. He looked glum and his sad face stopped George mid-sentence. I filled the space with, "Do you think he's holding that hockey stick so that everyone knows for sure it's him?" He really was holding a hockey stick, holding a hockey stick and wearing a big furry hat with the ear flaps buttoned up, and it was nearly too much. After a little while he came up behind us and walked past, lightly bumping into George who reflexively said, "Sorry," the way you do whenever there's any kind of inadvertant physical contact, regardless of who's at fault. He turned and looked at us for a second, still pretty glum, but he didn't say anything. After he'd gotten far enough ahead of us that he couldn't hear, we wondered aloud about what he was up to, why his face was so sad. "Maybe his team lost at hockey, maybe that hat makes his head too hot." Then he went one way and we went the other, so we moved on to wondering about the abandoned shoes we sometimes see in the street, and how it's hard to decide whether it's more unsettling to find a full pair or a half. I guess it depends on the story you make up in your head to go with the shoes, because it's impossible not to.

For the past hour or so I've been teaching myself a song I thought I already knew. It's probably a better idea to listen to the actual song rather than play a tape you keep in your head of the faraway last time you heard it. I mean, it's fine if that's what you want. Instead of playing the song you can invent a companion for it, maybe a sibling or a close cousin, a different song altogether, but one that looks the same around the mouth. There's no point in learning the song anyway, other than the chance it gives me to breathe myself dizzy while I sit next to the window and watch the sky get light. Man, I don't know about this mood. I'm right on the verge of getting on my own nerves.