Marc didn’t see me the first time we passed on the street. He was too busy, as he quite often is, staring at the black asphalt, letting his mind churn out idea upon idea. He didn’t see me, didn’t speak to me, but I already knew him. I knew him because of that little girl in the flat below me, the Mexican girl, who always visited him around lunch time and came back giggling at two in the afternoon. I listen to her sometimes. That’s how I knew him, the comic book artist with the goofy smile. I longed to speak to him, to say hello, or perhaps just to smile. I wanted him to know that I exist. Yet he just continued walking, mumbling something to himself that I could not hear. He reminds me of the reason I came here in the first place. I wanted to meet people without really meeting people, to learn all that I could from those that I pass everyday. My favorite one was the blind man in the park. He sat there everyday, feeding the birds. I know he isn’t just sitting. He’s waiting. I just don’t know what for.