%date 131008 00:00
By the park bench on a cloudy afternoon, sat a lone man in tattered rags on the floor. He had naught but yesterday's newspaper, a box of sounds and a sign. Old, unkept hair was finely complimented by the engravings that made up his face. The grooves were etched by amatuer sculpturers capable of only first drafts before burning out and starting again, in hopes of getting it right next time - tomorrow. As if tomorrow's problems would be solved by reading yesterday's articles.