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CZOLGOSZ, WORKIN MAN
Jun. 10th, 2015 08:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
singthesongToday is September 14th.
The knowledge fills the Balladeer with an anxious energy, though now he's got nowhere to go and nothing to do. It's just a normal day. Nothing special, nothing happening anywhere that he knows of, no cues to meet or new songs on the wind. It's not that he wants to be home - he's half-afraid he'll get sucked back there today, it's the last thing he wants. He just can't shake the feeling that he's supposed to be far away right now, doing something entirely different.
Also, he keeps jumping out of his skin at loud noises. Not a good problem to have in the heart of Manhattan.
He only recently returned to regular busking in the park, but even the vague lingering threat of ROMAC couldn't have kept him away today. His nerves are probably obvious to anyone passing by just from the sharp glances he keeps throwing at his surroundings, but he's still playing as normal, guitar case open for tips at his feet. It's a comforting setting: familiar, but not overly so. There's a little florist's shop on his usual route, which is the only reason for the bouquets of red carnations resting on the bench behind him. It's a tiny detail, but the sight of them in the window struck him like a bul - like a brick to the head. He'd bought one for his lapel, and then on impulse taken the rest as well. He's been handing them out to passerby between songs, and so far no one's bothered to ask him why.
Anyone who walks by multiple times may also notice that he keeps repeating a particular song throughout the day. It's catchy, right?
The knowledge fills the Balladeer with an anxious energy, though now he's got nowhere to go and nothing to do. It's just a normal day. Nothing special, nothing happening anywhere that he knows of, no cues to meet or new songs on the wind. It's not that he wants to be home - he's half-afraid he'll get sucked back there today, it's the last thing he wants. He just can't shake the feeling that he's supposed to be far away right now, doing something entirely different.
Also, he keeps jumping out of his skin at loud noises. Not a good problem to have in the heart of Manhattan.
He only recently returned to regular busking in the park, but even the vague lingering threat of ROMAC couldn't have kept him away today. His nerves are probably obvious to anyone passing by just from the sharp glances he keeps throwing at his surroundings, but he's still playing as normal, guitar case open for tips at his feet. It's a comforting setting: familiar, but not overly so. There's a little florist's shop on his usual route, which is the only reason for the bouquets of red carnations resting on the bench behind him. It's a tiny detail, but the sight of them in the window struck him like a bul - like a brick to the head. He'd bought one for his lapel, and then on impulse taken the rest as well. He's been handing them out to passerby between songs, and so far no one's bothered to ask him why.
Anyone who walks by multiple times may also notice that he keeps repeating a particular song throughout the day. It's catchy, right?
