  You Can Probably Guess My Trajectory More by accident than design, I found myself in Stockholm. Death hung in the air like a light bulb. It was raining. It was night and winter and dark and raining and the streets thronged with badly dressed sports commentators, asking for directions. I walked through the dark streets, electing not to hop or skip or jump or sprint, but to walk. Finally, after walking for what seemed like minutes, I reached a broad square of shops and public houses, dimly illuminated by badly-maintained street lighting, into which many other streets converged also. The various quarters of the city were arranged around the square like working-class cake decorations.
In the centre was a circular pool of water and in the middle, a small island. On the island stood a single tree, a magnolia. Next to the magnolia, stood a white-haired Irish man whistling Mr. Bojangles to himself. Seeing me loitering like a tourist, he spoke: "One day, my friend," he said, "your mouth will speak of remarkable things: unusual women and as-yet-unnamed psychological conditions. " Although I had no reason to doubt his words, I did not believe him. 
