The sound of a highway that is really the wind pushing down the wrong side of the street. He stood there with a voice so timid, I wanted to cry- no- hug him- no- laugh- or- lay down on the cobblestone right there and scream the poetry of that moment at everyone walking by- but- I didn't even give him a pound because by the time my heart began to constrict, my legs had already told me to keep walking along- but- all I can think about is his hands in his pockets and the white piece of paper on the ground at his feet, telling him the words to a song that he knew by heart. And there was his stubble and where is his family? And his hands in his pockets and I just kept walking.