as Miles played, you know. Jazz.

he sat there with a cigarette dangling between his lips- looking cool like you do- staring out at the night. lights buzzed, horns honked, tires screeched and he just sat. staring ahead with a sly smile like he was admiring something. see this had been a whole life, many of these nights from those steps, watching it all change, all adapt. he was grislier now, hands tougher, hair greyer, but these steps tossed the time aside, guided him back, back to the yesterdays. I just watched, not for the first time, the old man intrigued me. one day perhaps I'd go ask the questions to back up the story I had painted over these few years, confirm what I thought. but maybe not, maybe just now watching, his story could be my story. maybe I just needed to stare across at that mirror, from my side of the street, more than I needed to know anything real about his.