I am in Safeway because I need V8 juice. As I leave with my bottle, I see a teenager wearing creamsicle track pants. They shimmer with velour softness. I know that people of taste would recoil. I know that they would look preposterous on me. I covet them anyway.

I am walking down Southwest Fourth toward Washington. A thin, dark man with a craggy smile is telling his cell phone: “Evil is good! Say it! Evil is good! C’mon! Evil is good!” He continues his mantra until it is drowned by traffic.

I am waiting for the bus. Across the street, a bearded yellow rain suit detours briefly to rub himself lasciviously against Kvinneakt before he proceeds to the corner to wait for the light.

I see my bus. I think: “happiness!” And for the third time in as many days, I get this horrible earworm. I did not know it was by Donovan; I learned it at camp.

On the bus, I scribble a note in my tiny keychain book. It says:

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