A semi-circle has formed around the busker, each person with a hypnotized face created by the diaspora of notes dancing in the air. I can tell that his allure flashes brighter than his talent, however, from the tight way he holds the cords to the strained look on his face. Music, like anything creative, cannot be forced.

I’m in the train station now, awaiting my departure…or my arrival, I can’t be sure. Frenzies of passengers scurry along the tickets booths in an assembly line, each one digging hurriedly in their bag, pocket, or wallet for some missing piece needed for inspection. However, not one of them should be granted clearance, I think. I can tell by the way the people turn their heads and reaffirm the presence of their luggage that the train is here. It enters the station platform with a sluggish deceleration, a gradual silence, before stopping completely. I approach the boarding officer, ticket and I.D. in hand. His head is shaved, and he bears one minute, yet noticeable, scar underneath his left eye. Many would have been fooled, but not me. I can tell by the soft hazel that gives a subtle phosphorescence that his voice is gentle and kind.

Now walking through the park, I know from how the cool whisper of wind makes me shiver that the dark brown curls that rest heavily on her shoulders hide an even more burdening secret. Her sweet, delicate face speaks strongly of innocence…how badly I wanted to believe that.

I can tell from the rusting apparatus that the swing will not remain attached to it for long. If only the young girl on it now could hear its cries. The sand below her will not break her fall, either - it, as well, grows tiresome of human neglection and negation, each grain sparking a revolution in its shouts.

I go to the tree near the fence around the park, standing under its head as its arms stroke and caress mine. I can tell by the extreme gentleness and the way it touches that it has a timid sound - oppressed by the tireless, mechanical repetitions of industry. I look up, into the soft centre of the being, and notice how a single leaf glides with an aimless blissfulness through the air. It makes it way downwards where I can study it more closely. Its outline is worn and tattered, its spirit singing a sad, fading melody until it comes to rest on the ground completely.