Another day, trapped by mysterious forces in the gutter of the thugs' paradise.
Like a character in Balzac, sitting in the sunlight, holding down a cafe table of the park on the strength of two or three coffees through the morning, gazing into the middle distance vacantly when looking up from the small stack of books next to his cup and saucer. His winter-weight wool hat, worn and shiny, but from the best milliner, and his suit of the fashion of three or four years ago, the creases in the thick wool rounded from repeated hand laundering. A small bird stares at him querulously from the shadows under nearby tables, where the summer tourists have more freely scattered the crumbs of breakfast.
Non habet equum, non habet aequum.
I go on.