Old Man & The Market
I remember seeing him sit by himself. Everyone passed by without a second glance. The fish market moved in a mesmerising pattern. The people swayed like grass in the wind, all tightly packed, rolling as metal ball bearings. The owner of each stall ran their mouths with a disarming, charismatic desperation. Some stopped to talk and make purchases. Some wander through like they're at a museum, looking at fanciful paintings with deeper meanings. Others just passed with the determination to lease as soon as possible.
The older man sat there. He owned the stall, or at least I thought so, but he didn't make the same promises as the other salesmen.
He didn't say a word. He just looked vacantly into the distance with no emotion plastered across his face. He was tired; I could tell that from a distance. He sat perched upon a milk crate, slumped over and exhausted. He didn't bother to move. His face read as if a conversation was running in his head, yet his face claimed that he wasn't processing it, simply letting it play like a film screening with an active fire alarm.
It is said that great stories happen to those who can tell them; he sat in fierce defiance of that. Just because he has learnt from the conversation does not mean he understands. I doubt he will look up no matter what occurs past his gaze onto the cramped market stalls. The backlit menus, slinging the same as each respective stall, lit his face as all occurred around him and eternity within his head; I can't imagine he'd move if the alleys had caught fire. Sound travels far in the absence of any other sound; the same can be said for the opposite.
Original image taken by Angus Thomson