Driving along Govan Road at six in the evening, I see a tall dark figure standing in the middle of traffic at the foot of Southcroft Street.
Cars are slowing and stopping and pulling around the man when it's safe to do so.
When it comes to my turn, I stop and wait for the vehicles coming towards me to pass.
The man in the road is in his early twenties, a six footer with short, spiky black hair. He wears a long-sleeved black shirt, a black silk tie, black trousers and black shoes.
"For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold. I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could've been . . ."
The man in black is staggering from left foot to right, on the spot. Both arms are raised high above his head and he's clutching a bottle of dark glass in one hand. He's yelling in a raucous voice. The words are unintelligible, guttural and savage. I sit at the wheel and look at his eyes but they are vacant and staring blankly.
On the pavement, a young mum with children is watching and making a call on her mobile. A few mourners from today's funeral are making their way up the road, dressed in white shirts and black ties. They seem unconcerned.
A queue has formed behind me and ahead the road is clear. Time to move on.