Cello player on the subway platform, head down, long hair falling across his face as he sways, eyes closed, draws his bow deep and slow across the strings. He taps the pedals on his loop sampler that stores his ostinato drones and arpeggios over which he plays plangent, longing melodies, and the music subtly changes, growing agitated and intense as the train screeches into the station.
I give him a dollar to encourage his work, and I think, he has given me something, allowed me to give myself something: a connection to my soul. By giving a dollar, even just a dollar, nothing to me, but by giving, I acknowledge that I am in touch with a heart that is not dead, and he has created the space for that, to be here and know that something inside me feels, is alive, hears the tune and still remembers how to dance.
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