[Faint breathing as he walks, almost entirely overcome by the traffic, which is... New York. He doesn't say anything, but it takes him a while to figure out which way is east, and then he starts walking. Other people's conversations pass by quickly, since he's going as fast as he can so he's not outside that long. He gets all the way through that song and then the sound of his feet stops, and the traffic and passerby sounds more consistent; he's stopped moving.] I can't find it. [He's not panicking, but he's certainly not happy, and too distracted to be angry.] It's not here.