Sometimes it's good to people watch. The man on street with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders shrugged to ward off the cold. Who is he? What's his story? Perhaps he is a single father, struggling to support his small children and finding the task impossible. Maybe he's a traveler, passing through town with only a few dollars in his pocket and looking for work.
In this passage we call life, can we ever really know another person? Do the tenuous bonds that link us to our fellows really afford us a glimpse into the essence of the person under the layers? It's like we are all spinning balls of yarn whose ends may get briefly tangled together or sometimes they get knotted a little more permanently, but always we stay in our spinning selves.
Permanence is transitory and our touchstones flawed.
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