July 27, 2016:

Salmon-colored shorts, Nikes, baseball cap, scraggly white beard. Stoop, moving slow, as though weighted. A little overwhelmed, perhaps: too much information in too small a space.

Sleepy mom with infant, sneaking glances which her body language immediately denies: That was a coincidence, nothing to see here folks, move along, move along.

Father and daughter holding hands. Infant daughter amazed by the moving walk. Grandfather with Trotsky goatee, Colonel Sanders if he wore a string tie.

All passing, all fleeting, encounters without conatus: no persistence, no conjunction, no new singular thing produced as the product of my being here, unless these sentences count.