An aggressive wind rattled my windows all night long. I became conscious of it at about 2:47 a.m. I slept through most of it, but there were moments when I wondered if the glass was going to shatter.

I noticed while I stood on the corner waiting for the bus this morning that my life is like the movie “Groundhog Day.” My alarm clock wakens me every morning by sounding the same opening notes of a Chet Baker song; I shower from 6:15 to 6:23; I leave the house at 6:57; I wait on the corner for the bus, and the same people (many of them from my building) come out, in the same order, every day, to walk to their cars, to the train, or to other bus stops. The man with the pug on too long a leash comes shuffling by for his morning trip to 7-11. If I look just over my shoulder, I know I will see the balding gentleman with the pony tail and bookish glasses, all clad in leather walking westward. My bus, just having missed the light, waits a block and a half north of where I’m waiting. I have the fare in my hand. I board, and see the exact same people I saw the day before—that I will also see tomorrow.

I wonder what happens to everyone in between these brief places of overlap (their lives with mine).