butterflysymphony

The man is not much to look at. I see him over there, peering into his paper, his glasses slowly fogging up from his heavy breathing. He wears an old jumper that probably looked nice a long time ago. It was once a brilliant red, now it is burgundy. There is a patch on one elbow, red also, but sewn in crude, blue stiches. Who stitched it on for him? A lover, a friend? Himself perhaps, in the early hours of the morning? I watch him look out the window, seeing the landscape run past his eyes. His face is neutral, but his eyes are sad. They have seen things. One can tell, from the knowing way they droop and nod with the movement. He is still. The