This morning while exiting the subway terminal, a man, well-dressed – to get straight to the point, quite normal-looking – was ascending the stairs next to me. Jamming his way up as quickly as he could, he tripped halfway up the stairs and came too near permanently affixing the middle of his forehead into a stair, fairly near exactly where step meets riser.

He averted sure death by merely falling on to the side of his face, then recovered before anyone had a chance to offer help. He hopped up and out of the stairs, ahead of everyone else, and out on to the street, whereupon he darted out into rush-hour Sixth-Avenue traffic, paying no heed whatsoever to either personal or driver safety.

He made it out there, on the streets, I suppose, but I wonder for how long? Something must have been awfully important – and it must have been so important that it offered not one, but two, life-threatening injuries in as many minutes. What on earth is worth that?

Nothing. Zero. Nil. Which is why I walked the wrong way home this evening. Just for the hell of it.