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Its Morning, the rain yet to visit, with humid fog clouding windows: the open clear of windows reflect persons drinking coffee within: 11:25 and the following has begun apart from me. I know of no stalker aesthetic except that to stalk, one feels the paranoia of knowing everything with certainty: everything is perfectly delineated for the minor crime of stalking and questioning passersby if they are aware that a man of the crowd is walking the streets. This creates unease in the unknowing random persons during the absurd search without text messaging nor computer.

I sit in my car guarding it from traffic police: besides a fire hydrant and above a man watches me as I photograph him: he looks suspicious and I drive away. A forensic of pictures of events and experiences just ahead of me await at home, the man thinking outloud in pictures, allowing the collective subconscious of a city to follow him blind: the city criminal awaits at each block, upon each doorstep is a surveillance camera that hides the man from himself.

Beneath the grass
bones touched by
rain soaked soil
are tickled electric

PIC00048.jpgBowery Poets Bar Search for the man of the crowd

The grass grows in the autumn in a different way that in the summer: it awaits the cold of winter: most city folks do not step in the grass barefoot, only the dogs sense the change in season, as the human owners seems more preoccupied with colonizing coffee bars and hangouts, unaffected by the blood of sewer rats that crawl beneath the earth and hide with abandoned coffins. It is cold in the earth, as the concrete begins to moisten from knife like drops of rain. Umbrellas mushroom sporadically as joggers continue to run in the weather, and the man of the crowd continues to walk, beneath a foggy city wet.

The camera senses light differently as the light changes in the sky: fading into the glow of neon and yells of cabs honking, the city begins to speak in night.
The dogs go inside and the people come out to play: it is Saturday in a city. I realize that it would be better to think of the circumference of a circle, what is Pi and its relation to all the electric lights that sketches in the night the patterns of traffic and movement, sounds and of flow of people, entering and leaving streets. Each light has the personality of probability, each round fighting to sit in a musical chair; eliminated, random lights coordinated by the footsteps gathered in the escaping light of day, the feet that peddle, and the hands that turn wheels. Traffic happens most at prime time, but eventually the city will become more quite, and hush a whisper of forgotten cabs within the imagination of reflections that irradiate the ghosts of window shoppers from the day: the street lights remain in automatic, turning colors from stop to go, the city speaks in colors that glow in the night.

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