this morning #1828.

this morning, based on the random style in which he’d decided to dress, it looked like he’d given up on trying to impress others. all together as an outfit, it made little sense. plaid tweed jacket. board shorts that clashed. disastrously. a tattered pageboy cap with stringy, white hair jabbing out from beneath it in every single direction. stained new yorker tote hanging off his shoulder. telling the world, “this is me. take it or leave it.” zero fucks left to give. drifting solo down the street with his head in the clouds. on a mission to nowhere in particular. in no particular rush to get there. a man who’d seen some things. boldly unburdened & living the dream. at least, to me, that’s how it seemed.