I like to watch his face of repression. He sits tense and the look is of fury, pure blind silence. I don't believe it, but the customers that stroll past his booth do. That is the point, I guess. They see in him a image of themselves, which he has carved out of dilligent respect. He is brave in a way, in being so serious. His heart is soft and yet when we're here his eyes are hard and his actor-like jawline fixed on the money. I know why he does this. I do it on the bus every morning, and am practising the tactic in other places, leading the business heart. His own precious heart is soft, and when he sings, he sings justly of this brutal quietness, and he looks different - like he actually has a pulse. I see his despair creeping and sometimes I shout, in my own revulsing brain: I understand! Holy shit! I understand! But I say nothing, content in helping to quieten the volatile forces. Business as usual. Monday mornings are prime examples. The weekend emotions dissipate in a couple of days, and we're all silently glad, I think - which is healthy, and tolerable. But I particularly like it when he forgets all the rules and laughs at jokes I invent, the blood staining his thin skin.