A man with tombstone hair unfolds his bones onto a bench as if it was an easy chair in his own front room - which to judge from the bedrolls and sleeping bags it might well be. A rolling stone hat and Keith Richards cigarette, a road map of lines etch his face. He holds a staff with a skull set on the top to keep an eye on things as he puckers his lips around the gold rim of a Special Brew can.
The people in the city, confused by the news have a hard time allowing themselves to relax in the Mediterranean heat. They move in random streams and get under one and others’ feet and barely check their tempers, conceal the shortness of the fuse.
Plastic grass on the greengrocer’s stall, Tupperware bowls loaded with peaches, plums, tangerines and doughnut nectarines. The people keep on the move, muscles taught, smiles shrivel in faces hard as peach stones.
The man sips and smokes - a stone’s throw from all the richness of fruit a man could need. His eyes, if only he had a guitar, an audience, could tell you all there is to know about the blues.