Sometimes I feel the limitations of a public journal. It is impossible and undesirable to explain what is really going on inside oneself on a blog. Besides the embarrassment factor, it would be boring, which is the worst sin of all in public writing.

So today and always my innermost thoughts are off-limits. There're still plenty left. I am sitting in Market Street Coffee, and people bustling in and out give me plenty of subject matter. One lady with a lined, kind face, a lime green polyster shirt and pink pants holds the door for her offspring. As they meander slowly out the door and she stands patiently waiting, I wonder what it will be like some day to care much more for my children's lives than for my own? To plan their futures, not mine? Most of life still remains for me to find.

A sandy-haired man wearing a Vocelli Pizza jacket and baseball cap enters the coffee shop at the same time as an attractive young woman leaves. He hastens to step out of the way and hold the door for her, and I gain an impression of a good heart that wants to impress. Then he holds the door for another five seconds before he notices she has already passed through and walked away. When he moves to the counter, he lurches a little bit. He takes a newspaper from the table in front of me on the way out, and I look up. He sees me looking, and struggles internally for a second, then enunciates, "Excuse me," very slowly and carefully over his shoulder as he walks away. He sits at a table outside, and I glance at him covertly every now and then. I wonder what it is like inside his head.

People fascinate me. They are the players in the neverending movie that flickers past my eyes.  ¶ 12:04 PM