Context
Beat generation, Dylan Thomas, poetry…. We passed an Asian food market. He stood in front of the laundromat. He was not lighting a cigarette. He was playing a harmonica. I did not stick around long enough to listen. He was still playing when we emerged. He was not panhandling for money. The signs poetically rhymed. Ta da!
Kimchee…tea…tea…tea.
photobackstory 