Before the elderly gentleman noticed me and my girlfriend were watching him, he painted Chinese characters on wafer thin paper. Beautiful strokes controlled by a discerning eye, the bristles of the brush irrepairibly stained with the ink of his trade. Curves and loops and dots, coming together to form a written sound, his world lay at his fingertips as he meticulously practiced his art. The beauty and magic of his hands that time had mercislessly moulded moved as if a dance was being performed, and orchestrated. The master with little chin whiskers and spectacles aiding his failing eyes left more than ink behind in the wake of his brush. He left echoes of his soul, reverberations of ancient sages that flowed with every movement of his arm. Time stood still, he didn't know he was being watched, the little room faded away and all that was left was a table, an inkstone, and the man. The master. His cries, his smiles, his anger, his happiness. All were contained in every stroke that he made. As he finished his dance of motions and looked up he bore no expression. Without speaking he beckoned us to approach and to appreciate. "Would you like to buy this? I know you're a poor student, I'll sell it to you for cheap." The illusion was shattered as he prostituted his art. I looked, nodded my head in approval, bought a couple of pieces from him and walked away secretly disgusted. Of course! How could I have been so foolish as to think the world couldn't enter even the old man's room, the old man's vile quarters where he prostituted his soul.