Hurriedly striding past the crowd, you've stumbled in front of a table at a lazy afternoon coffeeshop.
You've pulled your bag and stuff from the floor and glared on the figure sitting there alone, and quiet.
Swearing under your breath, you ran back to the bus stop.
Later, at night, The coffeeshop comes to your mind; and the figure
with lots of open papers and a camera on the table, a guitar laying beside.
Still thinking, seemed like his thought, river deep, unending.