** The view **

The hand trembled, partially frozen by the passing wind, and she sat, in that sultry winter evening by the fence, she sat trembling. The passerby stared, @ that bare elbow stretched out of that yellow pullover, as it reached out for something. He hinted at his eagerness to know what she was hiding, yet he passesby.

That rugged bag stored a bunch of things, including a black, iron tipped Violin. She started playing it with a deterministic consistency. The melody unheard, the touches of the bow, grim yet mysteriously melodious. Soon, the anxious crowd gathers, ready to applaud the act with a generous tribute of currency. The grim melody kept playing, and the crowd waited anxiously to applaud.

As the melodic progression neared the ending, the chatter of the crowd magnified. The clinking of coins, broke the concentration of the violinist, which was evident with the sudden shake of the head. She started to walk away, ignoring the pile of coins, glancing merrily @ the surprised eyes of a satisfied crowd.

The old man by the side, sensing the opportunity, came up as the crowd started to disperse, to collect his generous and effortless collection. She smiled, and moved on.

The view was breadthtaking. This was so inhumane. Or was it just human?