Experiments in Plain Prose

The morning rush-hour in Busan lasts for about two hours on weekday mornings, from seven to nine o’clock, and during that time the lone homeless woman sitting on the steps at one of the exits at Sasang was passed by hundreds of people who took no notice of her. She was old, wrinkled, leathery, and dressed in soiled pajamas. She sat on a pile of cardboard, which she moved in under the street once it started to rain, and she shook a can full of coins whenever anyone passed her, mumbling and straining to make eye-contact by staring as fervently as she could into the indifferent faces that grew pale or hollow as they walked in and of the fluorescent bars of light shining down from the cement ceiling.

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