I can kill time. Watch me. People walk down the street like missed opportunities, a hundred stories we’ll never hear. I’m stuck walking with the crowd this time – a change from usual times, and I notice I’m almost the only one making way for people coming in the other direction. Running early, stuck in rain, I grab a quick gin at the Drunken Poet and hear a song over the speakers that sounds, well, Not Quite Right for the surroundings – I thought the language of this place would be, y’know, somehow different. James Joyce hangs above me on the wall, after all.