Someone was singing. I am sure, that someone was. Someone was … in a window. And singing. A woman. If this was so, the city, was less lonely. For a moment. For one decimal of time, it was less so. This singing. Others, had stepped, into windows. Leaned, from their front doors. Who would not have stood there, listening, and listening? For it was a pleasure for anyone. There is for so few men any pleasure. For anyone, who has nothing, anything. Pleasure, is the one thing of luxury so difficult to obtain. For even rich men. For anyone.
I leaned, on a column. I listened. And I listened. I did not dare move on. Until she was done.