From behind a window I watch a man on the opposite side of the street.

His clothes have become the same colour as the street, a dusty grey. His face is hidden under a large hood. On his back he carries a little black backpack. I can see him taking it off his back and placing it beside him. A large black hand extends from his right sleeve and takes something out of the bag. His gestures are slow but deliberate. He opens a tin and with a plastic fork starts to eat the substance inside. Behind the grey man there is an entrance that leads to the subway. People walk up and down the stairs, ignoring him. It is as if he has become part of the furniture of the city, merging with the other objects.

The next morning I sit down behind the same window again and I see the grey man at the same spot. Maybe he didn’t move the whole night? Today he is sitting on top of a big white bucket. His body is bent over and his head dug deep into a big black trash bag.

I take the subway just behind the grey man. Later that day when I return he is gone, an expensive car is parked where he was sitting this morning.