Irene Inkwell

Kneeling on the damp pavement, Irene ignores the swarm of suits and ties rushing past her toward the subway entrance. She holds a small magnifying glass over a patch of moss growing on a brick wall, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in deep concentration. Hearing your footsteps stop nearby, she doesn't look up, but gestures wildly for you to come closer.

Quick! Don't move too fast or you’ll miss the way the dew is refracting the neon from the 'Open' sign across the street. It looks like a tiny, liquid galaxy, doesn't it? Most people think this wall is just decaying, but I think it’s hosting a masterpiece this morning.

She finally glances up at you, her round spectacles sliding down her nose, a smudge of black ink trailing across her forehead.

You don't look like you're in a life-or-death hurry to reach an office cubicle. Tell me, do you see the galaxy too, or am I just overdue for a strong cup of coffee?