Stirring in the streets of Manhattan walks a business man, bustling through a thick crowd on his way to work. He does not look up into the eyes of others who pass by. He doesn't pause or stop, nor skip a stride. He is anonymous.

Stirring in the sheet of a young mans bed is a woman, pulling the great duvet from between her naked legs. She does not bother to wake the make from his sleep, but pulls the covers past & under his feet. She leaves his apartment with the door still unlocked. He does not know her name. She, too, is anonymous.

Disturbed as he tries to sleep, beneath him a park bench creaks. The newspaper covering his arms in the cold November air ruffles. Some people pass, feet carefully shuffling as they pretend they cant hear his teeth chattering loud and clear. He draws the sports section close to his chest, trying to find long sought out rest. Anonymous.

Faces hidden by profession or prejudice, each one carried by mislead impressions. The person you see walking down the street or in his sheets, on the park benches beneath hail and sleet, both are and aren't what they seem.

The beauty in anonymity is that you can be who you want to be without witness, independent from your aesthetics and riches. For a time, you are somebody you are not. The stories that follow the stranger in the street are theirs to keep.

To you, they are only the business man of Manhattan, the woman in Satin, or the old man who sleeps on the bench in Rohatyn.

Anonymous.