A man at a bus station selling baked goods

There´s a Nike cap on his head and a bum-bag fastened across his body from his shoulder to his hip. He walks with a waltz, as if he is determined not to bend his knees as he moves through the crowded station that is his stage each night. 

He is holding a Victoria sponge cake threateningly towards each person he passes. One by one, he approaches them, he leans in very close, and in a furious voice he bellows a sales pitch at the top of his lungs. Directly into their faces. And though I can´t be sure what he is saying, I could guess some of the adjectives he is using to describe the plastic-wrapped cake:

an irresistible strawberry conserve and cream filling, cushioned between delicately moist sponge
Victoria Sponge
But nobody wants it. Most targets of his awkward gestures pretend not to notice, unwilling to take part in his act. Their ignorance has little effect on his outward countenance, though, I find myself melancholic as I watch his scene. And I begin to imagine the immense sadness that must fill his lungs and which is only masked by consistency. Today is the same as yesterday, and we could see the same performance of the play tomorrow, in which, his part will be to continue without direction.

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