It was not the kind of park in which people practiced yoga in the middle of the day – even though it was full of wide open spaces which would have been perfect for a small army of yoga-exhibitionists to execute their slow and controlled narratives in an expansive formation just after lunch.  The park was a municipal space, nestling somewhere in the midst of the major organs of a tall, dark, handsome city which buzzed and fizzed with electrostratic modernity.  A little further down the road some children were filling a postbox with stones.  Whiling away an afternoon.  A man in a suit made – skilfully, thriftily – of old cardboard boxes came along the way, swaying slightly on the breeze.  He stopped, looked at them and they stopped, looked at him.  “You got stamps on those?” he asked.  The children stared at him and his cardboard clothes again.  The scene remained the same for a moment, any movements were microscopic and hardly worth reporting.  The two parties stared at each other some more and then the man walked on, on down the street as sound of stones rattling in the tin box filled the air like thought parcels abandoned in a hole, all set against the sound of no yoga being practiced in a nearby park.


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