Gazing across the harbour front from the double glazed French windows of Atlantic Place, Paul felt at home. The business crowd heading to their comfortable detached homes, luxurious cars and sophisticated wives.
He observed the downtown emptying from the elites and slowly the other crowd shuffling in. The homeless, the lonely, prostitutes, the schizophrenic and bipolar. Each marking their own corner on Water St , George St or Duckworth. Slowly, but steadily taking over and occupying a feet by feet abodes.
He was the son of unknown , his story a leather bound book of blank pages.
The window fogged slowly from the steam of french vanilla coffee his grandson ordered for him. A coffee that looks like coffee, yet tastes like some modern concoction that is called coffee.
A white gleaming screen is before his eyes. An Ipad. A gift from his three grandchildren so he can stay in touch with them on their travels in North America and Europe.
Its cold, white and he feels like sitting in a white ice castle.. glass reflecting endless strings of light before our eyes on a pale grey ocean.