I know this one pusher walks around humming a tune and everybody he passes takes it up.He is so grey and spectral and anonymous they don’t see him and think it is their own mind humming the tune.So the customers come in on Smiles,or I’m in the Mood for Love,or They say We’re too young to Go Steady,or whatever the song for that day. Sometime you can see maybe fifty ratty-looking junkies squealing sick, running along behind a boy with a harmonica , and there is The Man on a cane seat throwing bread to the swans , a fat queen drag waliking his Afghan hound through the East Fifties , an old wino pissing against an El post , a radical jewish student giving out leaflets in Washigton Square , a tree surgeon , an exterminator , an advertising fruit in Nedick’s where he calls the counterman by his first name. The world network junkies , tuned on a cord of rancid jissom , tying up furnished rooms, shivering in the junk-sick morning .( Old Pete Man suck the black smoke in the Chink laundry back room and Melancholy Baby dies from an overdose of time or cold turkey with drawal of breath .) In Yemen , Paris, New Orleans , Mexico City and Istanbul- shivering under the air hammers  and the steam shovels , shrieked junky curses at one another neither of us heard and the Man leaned out of a passing steam roller and I coped in a bucket of  tar.( Note : Istanbul is being torn down and rebuilt , especially shabby junk quarters, Istanbul has more heroin junkers than NYC .) The living and the dead , in sickness or on the nod , hooked or kicked or hooked again, come in the on junk beam and the Connection is eating Chop Suey on Dolores Street , Mexico D.F. dunking pund cake in the automat , chased up Exchange Place