Friday, February 1, 2013
There is an old man here with the most beautifully sad face, and the slowest precision of movement. And he holds his hand to his face as if he's talking on the cell phone, when most likely he's never owned one. But everybody lifts their hands to their cheeks to speak, and he wonders what all the fuss is about. I want to ask him what he's thinking about. He looks intelligent. He looks like the nicest man on the planet. And he is, because he's sitting here thinking about the world and looking around himself with that sad expression, that he feels compassionate towards everyone. He's wonderful. I can't imagine him not being this old frail man. As if that's all he ever was. No youth. He doesn't need it. He is beautiful as he is.