Slumped, more not of it than most, he shoulders his mostly feeble way, rakish and awkward, recklessly slaloming through the crowd with an almost shuddering abandon towards, well, nothing. He has no destination. Nowhere to go, or be. There are just these motions that he makes. He goes through things. Waiting to worry through some more waiting.

Portsmouth Square deals in it. The hands-crossed-behind-the-back stance, leaning in to the card games…