She has curly, pyramidal hair. She sits with her legs straight out on a piece of cardboard and plays her giant harmonica next to the bank. She is my friend; I walk past her playing the same melancholy song every day.
Though it occurs to me she wouldn’t recognize my face. For me the moment is real and holds the sentimentality of routine, but for her the moment does not exist. How can a moment exist and not exist? Can I call anything real?
If I put money in her container, she’ll notice me, and the problem will be solved!
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