You’re walking down the street in New York. You have to get to your job, your class, the shop you saw last weekend but didn’t get the chance to check out because you still needed to go over some documents before your meeting. Your eyes fixed on the pavement a couple of paces in front of your feet, intent on identifying and maneuvering the quickest path through the mob of people between you and the next block. Your shoulders brush past a man’s coat. Your torso twist and turns, your eyes momentarily glance at a white lid as you sip on your venti cup. You sidestep an old milk carton and are about to do the same to a pile of trash bags on the subway vents, but as you move they begin to billow out and up. 
You watch as what was just a pile of bags piled on the street inflate and pop forth into an animal, rising from the ground. The long neck rolls up to full height and you are staring at a giraffe in the middle of the sidewalk.

You stop.

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