Legs are all around me. Clacking high heels and work boots. Trousers and track pants and stockings and jeans, all scissoring their way toward me unseeingly. I am constantly moving around them, dodging feet. A man in a cap yells at an ATM, banging the wall beside it with his fist. Two tiny women, with headscarves and trolleys, discuss something in deep foreign voices. A monk talks on a mobile, wearing a yellow robe with one shoulder poking out and sneakers. I pass the fruit shop, with a wall of pungent flowers for sale on the sidewalk. The pears are going rotten. A bald man in a business suit steps on my toe – I yelp, and scramble across the road. People are looking down at me. I sniff at a man sitting on the ground in a sleeping bag. A woman with onyx hair strides past, her hair like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. I turn down a side street, I can smell burnt coffee and spray paint. The rumbling of trams dies away.