He stands a solitary figure. An entertainer for the bruised and broken hearts. I am here, lost somewhere amongst the hullabaloo, hoping to remain concealed between the jokerman and the fool. The people here claim to be everything, except what they really are. I turn to the guitar man. His large hat covers his face. He slowly lifts his head, our eyes meet and he receives me with a grin. I look beyond him, something has stirred my curiosity. I would have taken a closer look but the sound of the strumming guitar sways me. A major, followed by D major. He hesitates a little before he sings 'With your mercury mouth in the missionary times.' The slow guitar sound makes me feel melancholy, as he sings 'Sad eyed lady of the lowlands.' I head to the bar for another beer.
After spending my idle days in limbo, I am now as reckless as a convict on the loose. I stroll through Central Park and follow the stars, as a dog would his master.
I think of Bud. I think of Bob.