The sun is not yet up, and I’m outside the North railway station. I stop short when I see him. He cuts a striking figure with his aquiline profile. The electric lamp focused on his lottery tickets draws the onlooker’s eye like a magnet. Is that lamp a marketing device, the concept borrowed from expensive watches nestling in backlit displays worlds removed from the street? Or is it just that his eyes are weak? There is dignity and poise in the way he holds himself, the head erect, arms crossed. The pressed shirt with its stiff collar, and the pant, belong to an office. He has educated eyes that size me up quickly as I walk past.
I wonder what his story is, for a story he surely has.
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