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Thursday, February 27th, 2014, 6:37 p.m.

Scene: I looked out my second-story window just now, and on the sidewalk below in the twilight, I saw a man—mid-20s, slender, complete with post-college facial hair that he surely finds impressive—waving quickly and intensely at someone in the distance. I craned my neck to see the wave’s target, only to find that the man, decked out in a full anorak with the hood raised, was waving at a solid wall of evergreen trees. I looked again. The man began to jump up and down, mouth moving furiously, waving insistently at what remained a group of evergreen trees. I cracked my window to catch a snatch of what he was saying, but by then, he had stopped (presumably) shouting and segued into a small, repeated wave pattern. The wave slowed and slowed, until it stopped altogether. The man put his anorak hood down and proceeded to walk in the other direction, a giant smile on his face. Just before I closed the window, a soft, whistled strain of “Whistle While You Work” drifted into my room, chillingly pitched and surprisingly quiet. One final glance at the wall of evergreens revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and the man continued on his merry way, no sign of the excitement that just took place anywhere to be found.

"Lock up your libraries if you like, but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind."

-Virginia Woolf, "A Room of One's Own"




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