The Irish Literary Times

A skinny, gummy old guy selling bric-a-brac splayed out upon sagging porta-tables along a boarded-up stretch of the East Village. He sits to one side overseeing, half-sunk into a well-frayed leather seat, chewing nothing but spittle and air, chewing and watching and ruminating. He has been hawker and watcher and ruminator here a long time, inhaling all the passing instants on this ever-passing street, instants gone between the in-breath and the out-breath, unnoticed by anyone but him. He is the stillness in the rush, the painter on the banks, the maestro with the steady point of view from which to frame perspectives and formulate truths. Everyone else on the street is in a constant in-between, precisely nowhere, attending inner anxieties, oncoming necessities, confined to their immediate personal zone, learning only how to get from A to B on time and in the straightest line, paying little attention to the content of their journey.