Notes on a Shipwrecked Man of Varying Sorrows

I am sitting in a cafe (Beanscene--very hip), reading Crusoe, and stealing glances at the passing world. There is a great French door open to the street just to my right. No one is walking through it; it is my own great window onto Nicolson Street.

Across the street, The Militant workers hand out papers set up on their windy table--a sign hanging between them reads "Defend and Emulate the Cuban Revolution." Is it wrong for me to be thinking, 'how quaint...'? People are in jackets, vests, and knit hats already; it is not very cold. They are over-eager for winter. I hum the Jesus Prayer in my mind: 'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me...' The cars here are so small. The old men are so interesting in their plaid working shirts, their wispy white hair. The children are so beautiful. Why are American children always hidden away? People are so beautiful and sad (I like to stare at them, waiting for them to glance back. It is a strange triumph when they don't. There is one boy across the cafe from me who knows I am staring. He refuses to look back; I think he is posing, he is so suave and careful in his casual demeanor.)

Ahem. Back to Crusoe.