I was sitting there, looking down with my elbows rested on my knees, studying the fabric of my shoes so intently that I almost missed my stop. As the train was sitting there something clicked inside my head telling me it was time to get up and I went and slipped sideways through the closing subway doors.
        It was exiting the train station that I saw him; it was exiting the train station that I was overcome by a sense that I was in the presence of a true genius. I was a madman, still am. The man in question was sitting on the steps of a building in wrinkled, messy clothes and one shoe. The sock that held the shoeless foot had a fair-sized hole in the area of his big toe, and I found myself wondering if his other sock would be better suited for the job of replacing proper footwear. He was balding but had a rather long beard—his hair was messy curls of white.
        My pace moving down the block was overly slow in order to optimize the amount of time I would have to examine this odd man. I felt it'd be nice to talk to him but something ingrained in my mind since early childhood prevented me from pursuing that idea. 'What if he's crazy?' As if a sane man has much to offer in the field of interesting conversation. The sign he had rested up against him suggested that he was indeed touched in the head. It read: “God is a sock.” Any normal person would pass that off as proof that the man in question was mentally deranged, but I considered an alternate possibility. Perhaps he simply had an amazing sense of humour.
        What he was doing with his time was staring at a tree and the tiny square of dirt it was contained in. As I, hesitantly, passed him by I heard him mutter “What's he building in there?” His voice was made up of two parts curiosity, two parts desire, and one part determination. He smelled of sweat and urine, but not of booze.
        As I passed back a half-hour later, after picking up the copy of Cat's Cradle I'd been wanting to read for a month or so, the man was gone. I was curious as to what he was referring to in the muttering I had overheard and so I set down my book on one of the steps and sat myself where he had been sitting. I glared closely at the tree—studying the texture and the creases—then at the dirt, and the little scraps of garbage swept up in it. After several minutes of sitting and staring, and six or so people passing by thinking I was crazy, I noticed a tiny ant crawling down the trunk of the tree. It was carrying a twig. The ant took the twig down into a small burrow in the ground, carrying it sideways through the tight space. I waited. The ant came out, took another loose twig, and brought it back underground. It repeated this act a few more times before my curiosity burned a madness in me. That curiosity dangled heavily in my voice which, still being in my youth, contained stronger hints of determination than the tired man whose position I had usurped. I found myself muttering in a similar fashion as that man.
        “What's he building in there?” I repeated this several times, leaning closer and closer in to get a better and better look. This resulted in me with me on my hands and knees, hanging over the burrow in the ground with all the fiery passion of one who does not want, but needs to know something: “What's he building in there?”