novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- a composer there was a boy sitting outside the fountain cafe composing music on sheets of wrinkled paper as i walked inside to buy my sandwich. the notes were beautifully drawn along their rows, i looked as close as i could and saw little hooks and tails. i watched him through the window, pushing the gray sleeves of his hooded sweatshirt up his thin arms, folding a hand in front of his mouth, rubbing his fingers absent-mindedly along the stubble that followed his jaw. i liked his shoes: beat up black sneakers. he tapped his toes in time to the sound he was planning. his knees lifted and i knew he could play several different instruments, that is the mark of a drummer. his fingers twitch like a guitarist. maybe his arms lilt softly against a violin. i looked again after my sandwich was made and bought, at his empty seat. is it odd to want to know someone so badly after simply observing them lost somewhere else? 12:37 pm - 11.11.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||