The man who picked up cigarette butts in front of the coffee shop.
What's in his mind ?
Head slightly bent, shoulders are up. The tip of his feet are turned inwards, as if he were afraid to step on too much of the road. The road belongs to others, to those who have a place to go, a target to hit, somebody to meet.
He reaches the ground with his hand. The man picks up cigarette butts in front of the coffee shop. Slowly, one after the other. He keeps his left hand close to his chest, he drops them there, in this little nest, delicately, as you would feed a wounded bird. Then he sits down, awkward and shaking, on the edge of these fancy iron chairs. On the fancy iron table, he takes the cigarette buts and makes a line. Looks at them in a blurred gaze. Then, rumbling in his pocket, he seizes a lighter and starts puffing slowly on somebody else's leftover. He watches passers-by. Passers-by see nothing.