The young dramatist smiled.
“Good God,” he thought, “where do they come from. Where are they going? No place to no place. But always moving, shuffling, waddling, crying out. The sun shines on them. The rain pours on them. It burns. It freezes. Today they are bright with color. Tomorrow they are grey with gloom. But they are always the same, always in motion.”
The young dramatist stopped on the corner and looking around him spied a figure sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a building.
The figure was an old man.
He had a long white beard.
He had his legs tucked under him and an upturned tattered hat rested in his lap.
His thin face was raised and the sun beat down on it, but his eyes were closed.
“Asleep,” mused Moisse.
He moved closer to him.
The man’s head was covered with long silky white hair that hung down to his neck and hid his ears. It was uncombed. His face in the sun looked like the face of an ascetic, thin, finely veined.