The Thing About Duty is that One Cannot Rest

Working at the Revolution Cafe ce soir. Angry bum begins throwing shopping cart to ground. Screams. Repeats. He has no shoes. This continues for some time. Cars seem intimidated. Gangly hipster gets up to talk to him. Their conversation runs: "Why don't I move the shopping cart over here?" "Yes. No. I don't care." (screams, reseizes shopping cart). rinse. repeat. I scrawl "Blessed Are The Peacemakers" on a sheet of paper and leave it in my bag, approach the friend of said interloper. We watch it continue. After a while the police arrive and we end up sitting there, talking about Venezuela and Brazil. To be fair, I did none of the talking. I know nothing about South America.

The whole scene, before I left my solitary table inside the cafe, was watched through the frame of the cafe doors, with great swooping arm gestures and furious encounters, much like a silent film. The guitarist played classical etudes in the background.