This morning while crossing the street of a busy intersection, I heard a man emphatically speaking in a pleading tone — the kind one employs not in prayer, but at one’s executioner in their penultimate moments of life — and followed the voice to someone kneeling next to a parked car, as if begging the driver to let him in. The car was empty, and so I quickly deduced it was just a crazy person. He was sweating profusely, even though it was cold outside. When Bluetooth technology first came out and people held heated business calls into their headsets, their seemingly one-sided conversations looked insane, captivated by their own voice, confidently gesticulating at ghosts. I purchased my cappuccino “to go,” for which this entire excursion was, and returned to the same intersection. The man had got up from his knees and was now standing, squinting at the sky, perhaps in the direction of some loyal listener. I followed his gaze upward, in earnest corroboration to complete the call, but was netted by birds on wires, the pedestrian lattice-work of random notes which desperate men churn into song.