Human folly does not impede the turning of the stars.
I was sitting at my new laundry-mat on 21st, finishing up frog pajamas, ten pages ahoy...in walks a gentleman bum, resembling (nearly exactly) Larry Diamond from my book. (Deliverer of that juicy rainbow shpeel I posted other day.) Larry bum, walks in with a steel reserve, asks if he could set his blanket roll on the bench by my side, and assures me he's just there to watch the news. I quip that it's usually too quiet to hear over the machines, which he then relays that the machines were built by bakers. I continue to read, but kinda can't stop keeping one eye on him. He then begins to talk about the Surfer's moon. He's not facing me, just leaning on the nearest machine to the TV. He eventually saunters over and describes chopping up old surf boards and lighting the bonfire just as the moon set against the line of the sea. Of course, he then begins the decent into his addiction and then his life story, including Nelson Mandela, idaho, and a thwarted 3,000 dollar hired killing of his best friend. It's not terribly uninteresting. My laundry is dry, I pardon myself to fold it. As I'm working my way through my undies and tanks, and jeans and sweaters. I find a man's v neck. XL. Kinda darkened by the wash of my new levi's...I have no idea where it came from. So I bring it over to Larry bum, find out his name is Jeff. He puts it on, and notices a pile of blankets I had tossed into the garbage some frodofied, some just old. As I leave he's asking another washer about the blankets. I realize he's now got a clean shirt and a softer bed tonight. Anything to help out a Larry Diamond look a like.