For example, where is that guy from the train station now? The one I first saw, on the platform in the subway in Manhattan, who was talking to himself incoherently. And where is the sandwich I was thinking of giving him, which was wrapped in foil, placed in a sack, and left by me on a bench near the turnstiles in the second station, the one I got out at, in my neighborhood in Queens? Is that sandwich still where I left it, hours later? Did somebody pick it up? Is it in a garbage can, in the midst of other refuse, in the darkness inside a bin? Or did somebody eat it, and now it is being digested in that person’s stomach? What would’ve happened if I’d held onto it a minute longer, and had it on my person when I’d passed the other guy, the one standing outside the bodega, on the street, asking passersby if they could please buy him something to eat? Would we have had an interaction? Would he have accepted the sandwich if I’d offered it to him? What would his day have been like after? I ask these questions not to be facetious, but because they seem to me profound, despite their ordinariness. Or, perhaps, because of their ordinariness.