Through the doors, she dragged a fold-up trolley of shapeless objects, wrapped in flat-shimmer garbage bags presumably so that the precious unknown items would not get wet in the rain. One hand on the doorhandle, she stood with her eyes closed, and later on, she slumped into a nearby seat. Everyone was stealing glances. Her faded clothes, faded hair, faded hours of days gone marked themselves on her hands with lines and dirt on her shoes. Time did not stand still for her.
Starbucks on 440 Collins Street was closed. Two hastily scribbled signs later, we congregated inside a corner of the Sherlock Holmes across the street. Natalie has the run-down of events down pat and some photos to boot. It's strange and wonderful to meet people who could have been drifting by you every other day. Where were you, Scott?
Sean said I was born on a day of airborne dreamers - perhaps the palm reader was right ...
Posted by sniffles at July 19, 2002 12:25 AM