One Sunday

The sky is overcast. Everyone is sleeping. You get up early and take the green metro into town. The odd worker, an old man, a young girl going somewhere, perhaps to a factory shift rides the rails.

You are ready to disappear into nothing, looking for visual moments trapped in time. It is a walking meditation.

All the shops, stores and businesses are closed. Steel shutters and bars protect invisible interiors filled with foods and fabrics. Dead quiet. This reality reminds you of any other town, village or place on a Sunday. Quiet and deserted. Only a guy with a camera, a few early shopkeepers laying out board tables and cats. Lots of felines, prowling for garbage and mates.

Among some new people you meet are a group of musicians in a small cafe off a series of narrow alleys near a bookseller.

The men play, a woman sings. Drinking brown tea you absorb sharp clear string notes and her voice. It is a lament, a sad strong sorrowful love song from her heart, her lips, her life.

Peace.