They don’t just let you jump off the Eiffel Tower anymore. A woman wanted me to give her all of the coins in my pocket. I said no and that I was sorry. She said she was pregnant. I asked with what. Un bebe she said. I said I was pregnant with a very old man whom might be my grandfather, who I never met, and can she imagine how nervous I must be, you know, to meet him. And then there was one point when I was packed into the metro, feeling octagonal and pressed with strange warm bodies from all eight of my sides, like I could have just lifted both of my feet and nothing would have happened, which is such a good feeling, like back being a baby in that french woman’s womb, but as an old man, moving my old legs as if they had never at all known the ground, and then my hand touched someone else’s hand in that packed metro and our fingers kind of wrapped around each other for a second, but I wasn’t sure whose fingers they were. I counted all of the fingers I could see. I could see so many fingers. Everyone has so many fingers all of the time. I could see that fingers were just ten missed little wishes people have kept around to remember they once used them to count on.