"Oy," said one aspect of the universe to another one day. "Lookit that."
The other aspect looked. "Yeah?"
"She's all sad an' thoughtful," said the first.
"What?"
"Sad. Look, she's not even reading."
It looked again. "Sad, awright. What do you expect me to do about it?"
"Oh. Nuffin'. Just thought you'd want to know."
There was a long and silent moment, laden with nothing that even remotely resembled an attempt to give guilt. And then, a sigh. "Right, then. Send 'er stories, shall I?"
"Be nice a'ya."
Another pause.
"Why are we talking in'ese ridiculous accents?"
"I dunno. Cuz it's Thursday."
"'sWednesday, you twit."
"Wednesday again, already?"

Really, you can't expect aspects of the universe to keep too accurate an accounting of time. It would be like expecting them to have actively defined forms. Right unrealistic of you.

I have a friend who believes the universe takes a very real and very personal interest in her day-to-day happiness. I mention this because she's the first person I've ever met who actually takes this remarkably optimistic view on universal operations. She believes the universe knows her, and cares about her, and sends her messages and good things to tell her so. It's a perspective I particularly like, and thus will try on from time to time. It settles rather nicely with my refusal to believe in coincidences, and has a flare of joy to it that suits my ordinary frame of mind.

I have not, of late, been in my ordinary frame of mind, and if you believe in that sort of thing, yesterday the universe sat up and took notice. It then jostled and elbowed and maneuvered itself in such a way that by the time I sulked my way onto the bus, it was ready to show me what it could.

In a moment of unconcealed cynicism, I informed the world that it was good for nothing and it responded by sending me a bus full of stories.

As I sat down, a man, his voice a metronome, mechanical and meaningless,  repeated into his phone, “I-love-you-bay-beh…I-love-you-bay-beh…”

We passed a crossing guard, sitting in her car, head buried in her hands, the very picture of despair.

The single most attractive man I’ve ever encountered in real life came onto the bus and sat across from me. Late thirties or early forties, salt-and-pepper hair, one of those chiseled jaws you rarely see wandering around off of magazine covers, absolutely perfect shoulders. No wedding ring, and I felt a momentary flash of marital guilt for even noticing. My attention moved onwards before he took notice; I imagine he’s the sort who gets that kind of attention on a daily, if not hourly, basis.

“I’m lost, I took the wrong bus,” an old man said to the bus driver, and after some muddled conversation it was discovered that he was not on the wrong bus. He was still panicked, still confused, until a younger woman reassured him, sat him down again and wouldn't stop talking to him until his stop came up.

Another man came on with a full head of brown hair, except for a single small patch on the back of his head, which was bright blonde. Did he know about it? Did he do it deliberately? Probably not.

A woman got on the bus, dressed to the nines for a day in the city. She was gorgeous, there seemed to be quite a number of gorgeous people wandering the streets that afternoon. The most attractive man glanced up from his blackberry, was momentarily entranced. She didn't notice, and he turned back to his texting, another possible connection lost. In the background still, the robotic repetition; "I-love-you-bay-beh..."

An older lady complained of the heat to anyone who would listen, and with an edge of wistfulness observed that were she home in England, it would be much cooler this time of year. She had, strangely, a very heavy Southern accent.

All that poignancy in fifteen minutes, and there was a me in the perfect frame of mind to notice, and again I was struck by the beauty of the world and everything in it, and then life went on as always.