I recognize some of them, a chestnut tree, a copper beech maybe. It's a kind of game, giving everything a name when they're only molecules, moving randomly. I recognize some of them, a group of pigeons, a squirrel that looks tame chasing breadcrumbs, walking down a tree. It's a kind of game, this struggle to survive, to claim meaning for everything, store it in a library. I recognize some of them but none of the people here who came on lunch breaks, with take-away cups of coffee. It's a kind of game even if I decide not to play it, just remain on this park bench in a kind of numb frenzy. I recognize some of them, It's a kind of game.