The old man with long, brown and grey-streaked hair stood outside the train station muttering to the world.
It was three degrees. I could feel it, because I took my gloves off to check the temperature on my iPhone.
I could feel that familiar sting of air with barely a few degrees to it in spite of the bright sunshine overhead.
I could hear his words clearly, as I walked closer to the man.
“I don’t belong here anymore,” he said in a thin tenor to start the verse.
“You don’t know what they’re like, you don’t have a single clue,” he continued.
“I’m actually all right, all right,” he finished, as if practicing the words to a garage-rock song for a Friday-night pop-up show.
