Playing it by ear, the blind musician plucked gently at the gelatin strings of his guitar, funneling his passionate, incredulous heart into a single four inch-wide hole.

The passersby ignored his quiet pleas as he strummed a tune that he remembered hearing one autumn day, when the crickets suckled against ripe apples fallen into the debt-soaked dirt, the faint shadows of sparrows and hawks crawling through grassy shade, enveloping the little boys cries as he found the baseball he had been searching for until that moment.

Our musician coughed, kerchief in hand as he ignored the plum-colored drip and continued the strumming, continued the ignorance as women continually dug into his bare ankles with their clacking high heels.

"Good morning," he said to the prettiest girl he'd seen.