I stood behind you in line today, contemplating the back of your head and the curlicue at the nape of your neck, and it struck me that I know a piece of you, now, here in this moment, that you do not even know. This fragment of you is mine, this moment a page in your book, and I am the main character. How many pages are there like this one, pages of you that you have not read? Maybe you jogged down a busy sidewalk and ten pairs of eyes observed you in a flash. And all you know are the lampposts stringing ahead of you.