He lives alone in a home on Utopia Parkway. I know because he told me. He tells everyone, he said. He’d struck me as odd when he was standing before me at the intersection. It was 6th Avenue and West 34th Street. The sun was out but it was cold. New York is a cold place.
He turned around and he looked at me. I think he’d heard my camera go off behind him. “I’ve been waiting for you”, he said.
“So have I”, I said.
He lives alone in a home on Utopia Parkway. He told me so I’d know. I know now that it matters. Utopia is a special place. It is warm there in the cold.
He would walk the city every day. I was to be a page in his scrap-book. Such a special book. He collected people. The city is full of people.
He wore a woolen coat and carried a cane. On his wrist was a watch with a curious face and no hands.