into the distance of the days,
of those gone and of those yet to come --
he touches no one,
is touched by no one.
Yet noisy commerce
around him flows, constant movement;
but movement without a change of place,
no progress forward, no backward retreat --
an illusion of movement, only.
He sees youths
with no sense of self,
and leathery crones, unhygienic vagrants,
no place to go,
assailed by noises
amplified, blaring; noises that are not music --
jarring, with no theme, no message:
a repetitious assault upon the ear
Still he sits, in frozen
semi-trance, staring always inward,
but also into distance,
sentient and inert.