John Richardson, a tall, weathered, handsome man, lost to passing time and stares of hungry curiosity, sat on a small wooden bench as the snow hurled taunting tastes of cold tears in the small garden, part of a posh building that he had carved himself apart to possess. He had sacrificed his integrity for the pomp and security of fine address, the servile respect of doormen, elevator operators, and employees who had reason to visit his home. Yes he had hungered for the things bought with money, but he had allowed that hunger to mold him, had let desire give birth to ambition and more desire.
- He softly said aloud. "I remember when I was nineteen years old, struggling through college, dreaming of fine restaurants, owning Picassos, a seasonal box at the opera, the pleasures and visions of the grand life, the beauties of man's creation. But also the lost dream of great things; God how I wanted to paint, show the world the beauty and torment that raged through me like a mad storm, howling and roaring, never letting me rest."
- The overpowering facade of the giant luxury apartment house towered over the small surrounding garden, making the Homburged gentleman seem puny and futile. He sat, lost in a world of sorrow, as snow flew, covering his black coat and hat with white flakes. He was as intense as brooding sculpture, shoes buried by somnolent flakes, face blanched by cold and pain, silk scarf whiter than purity, shining between the black stretches of hat and coat.
- The passing swarms of city dwellers rushing home from work, rushing home to shelter, rushing Rushing …Rushing….Paused before the glass and steel elegance, sentried by a snow splattered lord of the city, sitting as still and forgotten as an ice age relic, and spent one brief curious moment wondering about the distinguished man, sitting alone in the snow on a garden bench, before forgetting him a moment later, as they continued on their way home.
