Earlier that morning, as Wren sat on the bench by the bus stop, an old man approached her, asking for coins. It was all he wanted, he said. So Wren gave him, and he thanked her, and he walked away. Wren looked at the old man with a heavy heart, and a heavy wallet. The moment the old man stopped (he sat by the bushes), she stood up and gave him a few bucks more. 

“That’s really nice of you, young lady. Thank you.”

Wren only smiled. 

Just then, a bus came. It was too crowded, even though others have already alighted. Wren decided to remain, under the heat and in the company of the deceiving asphalt. The old man got up, gave Wren a nod, then went his way. Wren waited.


The Diorama of an Old Woman (1)

View is the panning of pane of glass, plain and dull, with scratches and slashes. View is already going back, blur is gone, focus now on. View was dull and dead as skulls — as skulls to ash — yet more life in them. View: with elements, with content, with scene; eyes unfold, faces seen. And view is now a gradual clash of red and yellow and blue and black. View begins to make sense.