A Slurring City

February 23, 2017: Slur

He slurred his words into one big handful of confusion. To the composed bystander, it did not appear that the 6-foot dapper gentlemen with a clean shave and neatly combed hair had a clue what he was rambling about. His eyes revealed what lay underneath a confident shell. He was smiling while slurring, but his eyes were as they would have been had his lips been curved in the other direction, toward the messy sidewalk below his shiny black shoes. His back was upright and chest puffed out so that his baritone voice beamed through the cold air and onto every passerby’s muffled ears. Yet, our friendly composed bystander, the one who gathered that the towering gentlemen was in all likelihood slurring a string of senseless words into a series of sounds, was the only one to pause in her tracks. She turned towards the man, who at this point was waving his finger in admonishment of no one, or thing, in particular, and gave him an audience. As the man turned in the direction of our steadfast friend, he began to wave his finger wildly and continued to slur inexplicably. It was a sight to see, I must confess. I was seated on a park bench just 25 meters away, which I often do on days that I can tolerate, observing the frantic pace of the city avenues. The maddening world buzzed about without method or purpose. Yet just before my eyes, only 25 meters away, an obscure woman tried to make sense of the madness.



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