A man in a banana costume was sitting in a subway. It was dark and dirty. Several hobos sat leaning against a wall and made origami out of newspapers. The origami were elaborate, intricate works of art. One of the hobos made a newspaper origami rendition of the Mona Lisa. Another one made a paper hat and put it on his head, nodding to the others. One more lit his newspaper on fire, and placed it in front of the others. They got up and danced a ritualistic hobo fire dance. A man in a banana costume walked towards the hobos, and joined in their celebration. He stomped his feet and made guttural noises, no doubt meaning something profound in their native language, which he intuitively understood.

People with suitcases passed by them and stared in awe, struck by the majesticness of the glowing figures dancing by the fire. The fire from the newspaper grew dimmer and dimmer. As the corner of the subway grew darker, the dancing sped up and grew more frantic. The movements of the dancing hobos became jerkier, yet the individuals converged into a fluid expression of their hoboness. Slowly, the newspaper burned out, shriveling up into a crisp. The hobos ended their ritual by joining their hands as they stood in a circle and chanting something in their native language, finishing it with a long and nasally "NNNNAAAAAAAH."

After the fire had burned out completely, the hobos sat back against the wall. They folded their hands into a meditating position, palms up with thumb and pointer finger touching and began to meditate. A man in a banana costume did not participate in their ohm-ing. While he valued the way they spiritually transcended their physical state through dancing, he didn't want to go so deep into their mindset as to meditate with them. He was an individual, after all.

He stood up and walked out of the ritual circle.

A day later, a man in a banana costume walked out of a MacDonald's and stepped into a side street with a missing sign post. The street had purposely never been named because of something that happened every week on that street in the middle of the night between Monday and Tuesday. A man in a banana costume was there to witness that exact event.

He sat down beside a dumpster and waited until the appointed time. He didn't have a watch, so he didn't even know when the event would happen, or even if it had already occurred without him being there to witness it. Either way, time was irrelevant on that street, since there was no name on that street, and for some reason nameless streets also didn't have any relation to the flow of time of the outside world. A man in a banana costume understood all of this, so he waited quietly, knowing that it would happen. If he was late, he could just see it next week.

The light of a street lamp illuminated a shadow that slid into the nameless street. It glided over to a man in a banana costume and took a Gatling gun out of the front pocket of its coat.

The next morning, a man in a banana costume bought tickets to a museum. As he stepped onto the marble paving of the first floor and started to aimlessly walk around the exhibit, a tour guide tried to solicit him into signing up for her tour, which was at three o'clock.

But he had other things on his mind.

He had just witnessed the massacre of a pillar of marsupials.