An old woman, muttering to herself, shuffling hurriedly across the square, her thin hair dyed an unlikely and optimistic copper, teased to recall the effortless bouffants of earlier years; aggressive lipstick ardently applied, thickly, in the region where her once plump lips beckoned, the area now an overspread thin line. Her shoes designed for orthopedic comfort following a lifetime in heels, but scuffed; her dress a proclamation in florals. As she passes by the bench, shuffling and pushing her wire shopping cart, sounds of remembered conversations slip through her lips, sent by the breeze to the ears of the rain hovering above.
From the opposite corner, the swish of rubber on cement, the click click click of exquisitely tuned gears, a chirping ding of a naive bell, zooming into the park a slightly battered Peugeot, rust spots belying the hours with a tuning fork spent adjusting the spokes. The rider forsakes a helmet, forsakes spandex, forsakes any conveniences of the modern era, cycling clockwise around the fountain, twice, calculating the direction of the wind, the angle of the sun, the probability of a rainstorm, the likelihood of an inadvertent wrong turn.
The annoying aspect of making artist's books is that after all the effort of designing and producing the textblock, it is more than a bit of a bother to care about designing the binding, the box, the publicity, et cetera.