I once saw a girl with green eyes. It was the summer, but it was a cold day. San Francisco has no seasons, only cold days with the sun and cold days without the sun. Her green sweater brought out her green eyes. I remember her eyes because I saw something in them. But I see something in everything, so I cannot remember what it was. I was at the Washington Square park sitting on the green grass, watching the tall trees with their voluptuous green leaves. Squirrels ran from the dogs and children, as if in mortal danger. There were the sounds of the brown twigs crunching and the brown earth scattering, there were the sounds of the dogs barking at the end of their outstretched leashes, and the children screamed and screamed and screamed. There were green kites and green bicycles, there were green mats and green salads, there were green pens in the hands of the poets and their lovers wore plastic sunglasses with green frames. There was such happiness that cackles of laughter broke-out in surreal patterns as if carefully orchestrated by a madman. And would he be the happiest madman that we ever did know, dressed in a green cape with silly green hair. The copper sculptures were covered in a green rust and the girl with the green eyes rested her back against the green granite plinth of the tallest statue. Her sweater was hand-knit and well worn and she was soon joined by a handsome man in a green coat and matching green suede shoes. I walked down Columbus avenue to take my favorite seat outside the corner café at Green street. I ordered my green tea and looked at my wrist-watch. Time had stopped as the rusted needles had finally broken but I caught a glimpse of myself on the shiny glass that covered the green clock-face. I sighed and resigned into the green cushion of my favorite green chair, green with envy, feeling blue.