Have you seen this fellow? He saws on a little red violin at the Civic Center BART station, at the UN Plaza entrance. His pieces have no meter nor timbre, but he plays with undeniable passion. Also with indefatigable duration. My trips through this station come typically at 9:30 in the morning, then, returning, as late as 11:00 at night. He is there without fail, wrecking his poor catgut contraption, shaking violently on behalf of a weirder god.

But look, here is this disco pit, right here.

Don’t try to take him to a disco. You’ll never even get him out on the floor.

An impressively surgical grip on an instrument you’d think would demand a meat-paw.

Treeless and seatless, our sidewalks, and look what they do to a body.

From LA. Maybe he doesn’t understand how your lines work up here, because he’s from LA. Was a Fuller Brush salesman in South Central. You know, where the Crips are from. You’ve got to carry a gun if you’re a Fuller Brush salesman in South Central. You’re damn right he carried a gun. It’s not eavesdropping if the person is shouting.

Ready for blast-off.

Cobbled together some duller lifestyles into something vivacious and unique, this swishy Brutus and his party pants.

It’s been, what, 13 years? Last I ate you was over a years-long wooing, myself and my target grabbing dry fistfuls of you directly out of the box. Cinnamon Life, purchased by that one set of parents who kept their pantry stocked and chuckled at our bullshit, whose unexplained vacations made possible our first rickety fingerbangs.

It’s nice, you’d like it, to stand around all wet and nude and watch the streets go by.

The Ben-Hur Apartments. Endearingly childish and cheap, this building’s silly, silly motif.

Just wanted to thank the John D. & Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation for making possible another six months of Sex Pigeon.

Hard, hard, hard, hard suitcases. Favored by one hundred percent of young Germans in this train car. Berlin is resurgent, but how far can we allow it to go?