A murmur of voices from stylish young men in silly hats kept intruding on his thoughts. Not that his thoughts mattered much except to keep his synapses oiled and sparking on this day. Bad music played too, barely heard beyond the human noise. Good Friday. Once, long ago he had looked up why it was called that but he had forgotten and it was lost somewhere in the jumble of broken boxes and spilled things and cobwebs. He watched a couple leaving with food from a Chinese restaurant, rebels ignoring the fish & chip place two doors down. He decided to rebel too and put two typist spaces after each sentence despite the article saying woe processors no longer required that, but he felt daring anyway. He only remembered this because part of that article was visible under a torn paper with a poem just peeking out of the half opened box on the floor. Peaking maybe. He noticed the typo now woe processor but decided to leave it as writing was his woe processor.
He began to feel silly and satisfied now at his cleverness and wondered how to stop that bit of nonsense. He frowned, annoyed at his conceit. Suddenly the murmuring hats didn’t seem so silly.