Busker Most folks rush past, but this one old guy, he wheeled up fast to the best seat in the house, one of a thousand there on the street, to hear me and my guitar bleat and stomp about bad boys, stupid dreams and tired feet, drugs and drink and drinking all the bad blood of every bad job I’d had, and of running away from pain and noise, and nowhere to stay— all the big themes of me, of who I am and will be. He could’ve been my old grandad sitting there, who never heard me play, never took me in, but as I strummed and grooved and wailed a while, I saw he’d close his eyes sometimes and smile, and I knew I hadn’t failed.
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No busker has ever failed me. Not possible.
now that's someone who knows how to listen <3