St. Stephen’s Square, on repeat, the figure in the shadow of the streetlamp performs his ritual. Four wine glasses lie in front of him, atop a chequered teatowel stretched taut. He begins:

“The cat walks into the night, he can’t find his way out.”

A short but heavy pause follows, and then he runs a moistened finger around the rims of two glasses: F#, G#. He waits again, a little longer this time.

“The cat walks out of the night, he can’t find his way in”.

Another two notes, the same, and a longer pause. His stillness seeps from the dim corner into the lamplight of the sparse, meditative crowd.

“Morning has broken. The sun is rising.”

Four notes, louder: F#, G#, D#, C#. A long pause, the sound of his held breath.

He sets his hands down and begins again.

Either he was a lunatic, an artist, or he knew something we didn’t.