Windows are the eyes to the souls that pass by.
The small cafe, a platform of observation for the everyday voyeur to the hustle and bustle of city life.
Harsh winds and icy rain marr the faces of the concrete jungle natives. To long ago they bought into the cosmopolitan life and now pay the price.
The watcher chuckles at the futility of it all. The city will not remember their years of service. It will merely consume the next schmuck that dreams of the big city.
The cafe is warm and aromatic. A single shop, the last of its kind among the chains and franchises. None too trendy but perfect for watching the world go by.
The lovers hold hands and sip hot chocolate in matching grey coats. Muffled voices over the hiss of the milk frother.
Observing their happiness, the watcher smiles and returns to the window. Fast pace no time to waste go getting in the rat race.
Business and tourism combine to make a buzzing humming constant drumming that drives the gentle insane.
The watcher by the window takes out book and pen. No wires and flash; just paper, ink and the eyes that see and hands that write the observations through the window.