The cab driver who drove me from JFK to my apartment in Manhattan was talking to himself incessantly.
“I should have been on the L.I.E. by now,” he said. "This is killing me.” A few seconds later I heard him mumble: “Give me a street, any street.” Suddenly he said to me: “Where did you come from?” “Amsterdam,” I answered.
“How many hours?” “Eight hours,” I said.
“Did they feed you?” “They fed me,” I answered.
“That would have been inhuman,” he said. “Eight hours without food.”