I’ve suddenly found myself in a parallel universe, when I spot an object I own that has seemingly been teleported from a shelf in my bedroom into the biggest flea market in Paris. My first thought is an indignant one: “What’s that doing there? It’s mine.”
My dog and I enjoy going for walks through the city at midnight. We don’t have any particular attraction to the witching hour, but rather we have an anti-social streak. It’s specific, not widely misanthropic: we want to avoid other dog people.