What is going on inside that man's head?  Has he always been that way or did he gradually decline into the obvious madness that's holding him?  He's tall, probably six and a half feet, and slender. His movements are palsied and his hands are contorted as he preens his plastic bags. He has four plastic grocery bags that are all full of other plastic grocery bags. Some of them are crumpled and stuffed in, others are folded neatly.  He's obsessing over them. One of his feet is wearing a boot.  His other foot is wrapped in plastic bags fastened with black electrical tape and wearing a sandal. I'm sitting next to him while I wait for my coffee. He's incredibly fidgety, moving things on the counter around, touching his coffee carafe, sliding his cup, smoothing the bags, rifling through a billfold full of coupons and a bus schedule.  I'm staring out the window at a space just past his things. He thinks I'm watching him, which I am. I glance up to his face, give him a little smile and then awkwardly look away. One of his bags of bags is tattered into ribbons and hangs off the counter by his knee, fluttering every time he moves. He's got blond hair tied loosely into a low ponytail with stray strands tucked behind his ears. His skin is sallow and soft looking.  There's a listlessness in his eyes that speaks of a long and troubled life. I saw him a short while later walking by the window of the comic shop with his bags of bags. Thanks, crazy guy, for being there. Good luck with your bag life.