1998

I suddenly stop and look down at my feet and see them standing close to a silvery puddle or rain. A voice to my immediate right vaguely chastises me, but I ignore it anyway.

I am fascinated by the sight of the silvery and iridescent puddle, reflecting the plumbus sky and the fast passing of birds high above my head. I see the upper edges of buildings I ignore and can just make out a shaft of brilliant sunlight trying to sneak its way through the clouds, all painted in stark grey, whites and blacks and only marginally distorted by the traffic and people that pass only feet away from it.

It is a marvelous thing to look at; there is no way to capture it but to stare at it and remember – to try and immerse yourself into that beautiful world-within-the-world and take back from it something that has been lost here.

Another voice expresses irritation at me holding up the traffic, so I turn, swear and kick the entire puddle over her and stomp off in the other direction.

This is what it means to be a human.