You sit and think. Why would the mayor even know who you are? You stroke your chin and frown at the ground and you look at your shirt, what's this shirt you're wearing? You get up and go to a mirror. On your shirt is a picture of you and the mayor, smiling at the race track, holding up a sign together that says "Pals!" and you remember, again, that you're a close personal friend of the mayor with a terrible and tragic paranoid memory condition. You relax and open the window. The sun is going down over the sheep and the wheat and so on and so on.
The End