It was just as well, since I had no idea why I was trailing him. Perhaps I wanted something magical to happen; perhaps I wanted to wind up on the handlebars of a motorcycle speeding wildly through the streets of 1924. Instead, I stopped dead on an avenue of the new millennium, clutching my perhaps valuable magician bank and my transparent horse, and pondered my next move. I didn’t need a watch to tell me what time it was; it was fast approaching the time to address the future, the future in the form of thirty pairs of blinking teenaged eyes. They opened before me, then, an audience in a small theatre, poised between silence and sound, waiting for my pratfall, waiting to see how I would handle this straitjacket they would likely one day, in one form or another, inherit. I had stopped dead,
