It poured mercilessly yesterday. I think my shoes might have been ruined, I hope not; they are now drying.

As I made my way to Dupont Circle, firmly attached to my umbrella’s handle — it had become an extension of my-self, unbending, unrelenting to the whims of the rapacious and voracious wind — I chanced upon the Iraqi embassy. I slowed my pace and began to lose myself in thought. But I sighed and awoke, arose from the abyss of lucidity.

After several rotations, I failed to discover the FedEx installation: the reason for my monotonous march under the relentless rain. “I guess I’m going to have to make contact,” I concluded. I approached a woman who was kind enough to point me in the right direction; the FedEx installation is not on Dupont Circle as the Delphic FedEx web-site had prophesied but on a street tangent to it! I thanked the woman and made my way.

And now I wait. But is that not always how it is?