It had started to rain in Berlin, and I ducked under the awning of a building when, eeek, I turned around and there was a naked man with a rooster head. I was taken aback, to say the least, stunned to be more precise and confused as all get out on top of it all. That head. That body. Where were his clothes? His pants? Brrrrrr. Did he lose a costume on the way home from a party? Was he dazed. Drunk. A victim of a rooster outfit robbery. He was silent. No crowing. Not a peep. Semi Neanderthal. A cousin of the centaur. He wasn’t moving a muscle. The best I could think to do for him was offer myself up as a fig leaf, which I was happy to do, . . . until it stopped raining.