In Manhattan. Somewhere between the 1/2/3 and L trains, a man plays his guitar. To call him homeless would be to silence his song. A man so broken finds no home in walls and a ceiling, but in his flesh and his sound.

You can tell he's from the 60s. Playing just like my dad used to play. With every string singing about the sun of greenwich village or the dry night air of Barcelona. And you couldnt tell which he'd lived in all his life.