I pawn the little scraps of self-sustainment I still hoard over the filthy blanket I call my home, and I take out the frayed hat I use as a pillow onto the gritty pavement in front of me, vacant and waiting, for someone to have a heart and bless the beggar I’ve become.
But these busy souls just meander pass my floating music, hurrying off towards their ever-shifting eyes. And they do not even spare me a look, a glance, as I pluck the strings to the bright tunes that I hope would lift up their eyes and shine some glint of perseverance into their glass bones, but I keep playing, through the hours and when the sky begins to wane, my fingers are aching, my stomach is aching, my head is aching, my heart is aching, but I do not stop, because I’m foolish, because I believe that they should smile more at the expense of my suffering, because…
And the streets begin to empty, and I do not smell the stale cigarettes in the air anymore, and the hustling of mobs of stray people have evaporated into the night, and my song is melancholy in its pitiful solitude, so I pull the empty hat under my head and I wrap the ripped blanket around me, hoping I’ll find some kindness, some generosity, some love tomorrow.