This might be the start of a great masterpiece, pondered the man while trees and fences slowly pass by him. Maybe I will go home now, and the moment will arrive; the great story will be told, the love poem that hovers in fragments will finally coagulate into sentences. Maybe, from now on things will flow out in an organized manner, and this sick emptiness shall finally vanish.
A man, no longer young, is walking in the street one afternoon as if to a very specific place; that is, not slowly, yet not fast. His coat is not frayed, though his shoes have seen better days. If his chin had been shaved this morning I cannot tell; I am walking behind him.
My own great masterpiece is waiting at home. Like that of many others, come to think of it. This man does evoke my sympathy, nonetheless. (I ask myself if he reminds me of someone I know.)
An afternoon in a side street, in an insignificant city. Me, I have my life, and the man walking in front of me, has his. This connection, a brief one, is incidental and there is no point in further extending it.
I turn around and head in the opposite direction.
I have a feeling this painting will never be completed, I smile; a smile of despair, most likely. Another layer of paint, and another. The solution might be in taking it off the wall, rolling it, and putting it aside. This action is beyond the energy I can currently muster. It is far simpler to move to the kitchen and make some coffee. There, away from the brushes, my control is greater.
The rest can wait for now.