There were other ways of knowing:
he stepped into a yellow morning which seemed to him to be,
well, not gray but kind of a grayish maroon
He couldn't figure out why;
he hadn't eaten mushrooms in at least a week

He stumble-crawled towards Dave's Luncheonette, climbed into a booth
He insisted on looking at the menu for six minutes and thirty seven seconds every day
even though he always ordered bacon and eggs, toast and coffee
This morning, he also ordered water, but he didn't drink any of it

It was Thursday, April 20, 1967 He was waiting for something to happen
As he was eating, some of the water evaporated,
some people were born, some were married, a star imploded, a friends of his was throwing up, two others were having sex
As he finished his last forkful of eggs, a fly sitting directly opposite from him, died

He left Dave's, headed north
Nothing much happened the rest of the day
Had he known it was Hitler's birthday, he would not have celebrated