Came home last night with that kind of lucid drunk, where you notice the faces across from you on the train, of young women resting on each other's shoulders, nearly asleep after a night out on the town.

It was past 2 and the pizza place was open, just like it always is, like it was 9 o'clock, or 2 in the afternoon. Same type of people inside, too. I got two slices to go, taking great care to enunciate the word “regular.”

At home I watched the beginning of “Blade Runner,” set in 2019, with replicants who’d been activated in 2016. I considered whether there was anything prescient in the film. Maybe the ubiquity of commercials, the grimy mix of cultures. I guess we are awaiting the singularity sometime soon. But not the flying cars. Always the flying cars.