The old man ordered a black coffee, and then walked over to a table where a young man sat, reading the paper over a pair of glasses.

"Mind if I sit with you?" The old man smiled toothily. The young man lowered his paper and assessed the intruder. The old man was dressed well, though his clothes definitely had a worn-in look.

Then he glanced around at the rest of the cafe - a pair of young lovers - a college student poring over several books and a laptop - two housewives with a child in a stroller - no empty tables.

"Suit yourself," the young man replied.

The old man sat down, and before the young man could bury himself in his paper again, said "I'm Edward; what's your name?" The young man gave it, and glanced meaningfully (or he thought it meaningful) at the paper.

Regardless, the old man clutched at the opportunity for conversation, and began rattling off questions, which, for some reason, the young man felt almost compelled to answer. His hometown - his marital status - his school - his parents - his dog - when the old man started asking about his hobbies he felt a sudden severe discomfort, as if he was being torn apart and analyzed. He told the old man something to that effect, and the old man sighed. The younger man asked why he wanted to know all of these things, and just where the hell he got off asking someone he just met so many questions.

"You see," began the old man, "I'm afraid you're not real."

The young man raised an eyebrow and began to wonder if perhaps he should have gotten up and left when the old man sat down.

"Oh, perhaps real in whatever way you people call it, but not in the same way as I am." The way he said "you people" suggested racism, or something of the kind, to the younger man. He wondered if perhaps the older man thought him Jewish? He began to fidget uncomfortably and look for an excuse to leave.

"You see, you're all ephemeral - you don't stick around for the long haul. My whole life I've been wandering around your cities, your backwater towns, all of it. You keep disappearing."

The younger man's interest was piqued, though he still somewhat feared the old man, who seemed a likely maniac.

"You see, I'll be talking to you, just like I am now, and ten, fifteen minutes later, you'll disappear. Sometimes ten seconds. Somebody else often appears instead, but sometimes nobody does. I've been living for years, but you people just pop in for a few minutes and then are gone."

The younger man pointed out that in fact he had lived for twenty-odd years - had parents who were there the whole time he was growing up - had old friends - an alma mater - was fluent in two languages - in fact, that he knew many things which a creature that was only ten (or fifteen) minutes old could not possibly know.

"That's the thing you don't get - you have all these memories, but they are all just part of the package. You get created as a supposedly intact person with a personal history, the works. It's amazing how many strange details you people are endowed with. A broken leg at five. An avid fan of dog-racing. A tendency to drool while eating soup."

The younger man pointed out that the older man's judgement and recollection might be faulty, and wasn't that really more likely than an entire world full of disappearing images? Besides, he wanted to know, if everyone else disappeared after a few minutes, why did he bother to talk to them?

The older man smiled. "Two reasons. First, I grow bored without others to talk to. Second, you people built these cities. You constructed these religions and beliefs I can learn about in the bookstores. Hell, you constructed the bookstores, too."

The younger man didn't get it, and told him so. What did the construction have to do with anything? Surely he could get a better feel from architecture texts than from a ten minute conversation.

The old man's smile faded and became slightly sad. "Ah, you see; there are hundreds of construction workers that cycle through a given piece of work during a given day. They never repeat that I have seen. I have never even seen the same individual twice. However, somehow you people keep constructing it, as if there were a plan behind it all."

The younger man pointed out that in fact that was what blueprints were for, constructed by architects so that several unrelated people could in fact finish the building.

"Ah, you see, that's the second reason. I'm hoping to meet the architect. Not of a building, but of the whole plan. There's too much madness in the world not to see a deeper order."

The young man pondered this, and looked around the cafe. A pair of young lovers - a college student poring over several books and a laptop - two housewives with a child in a stroller. But wait, wasn't that a different man kissing the redhead? And wasn't that a different mother with the same child?

The older man sat alone at the table and sipped his coffee. He sighed deeply. "Ah, well. Maybe next time."