At a certain point in my life it dawned on me that other people are people too.

That guy bent over with Fentanyl? A whole world: boyhood, rites of passage, dreams, regrets, memories, crushes — the works.

The evil billionaire? Old wounds, sincere beliefs, time with grandchildren — playing Legos — staring at the trees in the mist out the window through the coffee steam and wondering wordlessly what it all means, what it adds up to. Fond memories, perhaps, of watching Star Trek or Star Wars or playing on the beach or in the snow. Doubts if a 1-billion donation will be enough to make them feel like a good person — a generous person.

The woman who is so pretty but doesn’t seem to realize it, who I’m trying not to stare at too much — but not totally wholeheartedly, because, c’mon, look at her — might have a terrible stomach ache, and be thinking about whether she will pass her biomedical exam. She might be mulling over the chapter of Montaigne’s essays she just finished, which was vulgar and about farts, but he did have a point. She smiles, then remembers the gap in her teeth, which reminds her that she’s getting fat and should lose a few pounds. And maybe she should pivot and work in AI safety because will anything else matter if she doesn’t? She sees an adorable kid walk by, which triggers an ache because she wants to have a family. With Thomas. But she doesn’t even know if Thomas likes her like that or is just being friendly. He hasn’t responded. Is he okay? But also having kids is so expensive, how could they afford it?

The boy who walked by is not just ‘a kid’, or even an ‘adorable kid’. He’s Adrian, with a rich inner life of his own. He’s thinking about the cranky pirate from Swallows and Amazons, which he’s reading because Mum won’t let him use the iPad after dinner. Captain Flint is so funny. His chest is full of feelings that he doesn’t have names for that stretch his ribs outward. He picks his nose idly while thinking about Napoleon.

The writer writes and wonders if he’s any good, if anyone will read it, if he’s blowing smoke and putting on airs. But there’s something here, isn’t there, yearning to be born, if he can get the forceps on its head and pull, and remembers to cut that metaphor when editing. Maybe a nifty person will read his blog and write in. Maybe he’s just trying to feel important. Is it working? It’s hard to tell.

The reader is busy, and probably wasn’t planning to read this. Maybe breakfast is burning or the flight boarding, or sleep waiting for the glowing rectangle to go away. The main thing the reader notices is that it’s all made up. The inner lives are fake! They can tell, because this never occurred to them. All these rich inner worlds all sound a lot like the author’s fantasy about what other people are like. Because, they are … barring 100th monkey divine intervention. And yet, there’s something intriguing about the botched attempt. The reader reads on, hoping to feel and learn something — for a payoff, an aha. Maybe fantasy is better than nothing. The author is way off the mark, but at least he’s trying. If he keeps his heart open and doesn’t get cocky, he might get someplace. Wait – I can help. The reader clicks “reply by email” to straighten the author out on a few points, and writes what it’s really like to be a different person – different gender, different size, different language, different religion, different background, different country, different age, different everything … except what isn’t different at all.