I can’t tell you how many times I’ve passed Dusty. You can hear his music before you see him. A soulful riff floating along the outer edges of Washington Square Park. Sometimes it greets you in the morning, lifting you out of a sleepwalking stumble. Other times it meets you after a long day on the clock, a gentle reminder to enjoy what little day you have left. I can’t help but smile when I hear Dusty jamming, and I’ve been carrying around his portrait waiting for the perfect opportunity to pay him back.

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