In the window of the gallery, under dangling Christmas ornaments the size of small dodgeballs, the figure sat.
It was a sculpture of a human form, with clocks carved in its head and the base of the Eiffel Tower protruding from its abdomen because Art, that’s why.
It was an armless person with legs in lotus position. The clock-covered head was looking to the side as if it were itself thinking the deep, poetic, artistic thoughts it was meant to inspire in others.
Its organs spilled outward to the world.
Hunched in the doorway of the gallery, a different figure sat.
This one was a lump of cloth inspiring nothing but a few second glances to check if there really was a person there. A pink felt blanket covered the bottom portion of (his? her?) the body. The top was covered in a giant hooded blanket spangled with star-burst mandalas.
He, or maybe she, had crawled into the art gallery doorway to hide from the cold for a night.
Nestled between the gallery door and a folding shopping dolly filled with books, cans and other hobo detritus, the man or woman was an indistinguishable lump. No features were visible under the thick, felt swaddle that hid the formless form from the wind.
There was just a vague human lump of clothes sitting in the doorway. It sat in lotus position.
Behind the glass, the clock-headed figure was turned away from the sleeping one outside.
