The Only Sane Man in Stockholm

He's there outside the department store next to Sergels square. If he isn't then you can find him at Stureplan beating back the crowds. To describe him is to describe minimalism and simplicity. He wears clothes that no one has even studied. Grey is the only color one thinks about when they pass him. It isn't the glints of white in his beard or the steadily receding scandinavian hair line. Its the erratic movements that they might call dancing somewhere far from these streets. The movements would turn anyone's back into jello and leave him hunchbacked for a month. Not our hero, he is there everyday playing to those who don't listen. If he spoke he might be a prophet. A Jeremiah or an Elijah. Maybe if you watch long enough the skies will part and doves will descend on him. His only tools are a handheld radio tuned somewhere between two stations and a harmonica that he uses to create his own reality. The fingernails, the skin, the eyes are so blank and dirty. Maybe its the music that only he hears in his own noise. Everyone else uses him to fulfill a purpose in their lives as they pass him by. Today I am sane for I am not that poor man playing a harmonica and a song that only he can make out. Its conceivable the government is paying him to play and let the masses believe for a minute that there is sanity.