I have long carried the following thought(s)/emotion(s) in my head:

  The next installment in my Nunzia Nanzio stories where we leave mike d. and rob g. and go on a walk around the block where they live:
  The people who live on and around this narrow, tree-lined, strip remember nothing, have no memories of their past, anything, except for an instinct to use whatever devices they find waiting for them in their shops every morning.
  So the bakers will switch on the oven and bake palmiers. The newsagents will turn on their cash machines and give early-rising people with take-away cups of coffee in their puffy hands their exact change for a copy of today's newspaper and a carton of milk. The lesbian shopkeeper will start roasting coffee beans for her Vitalux coffee machine. It gleams in the pre-loved dullness of her bookshop. It is called ————
  Everything works. But nothing means anything.