franceslievens | The Homeless Man That Wasn't

With all his possesions stashed into plastic boxes and loaded onto a trolley he looks a lot like a homeless man, catching a free ride on the underground train, hoping not to run into the public transport police. Happily he chats to another bloke, which means he can't be homeless. He hasn't got the empty look in his eyes, the dull expression that shows a total withdrawal from society. All his possessions? This isn't everything he owns. Everything he owns can't be the sweets that are filling up the plastic boxes by the hundreds. So he must be the owner of a night shop, coming back from shopping at Colruyt. And again the only answer that sticks, isn't a satisfactory one. No Colruyt near this station and not one in the city that's open at this ungodly early hour of a quarter to eight in the morning. He's just a man, pulling a heavy trolley into the underground train, getting off again at the next stop, on his way to Little Turkey.

One week later, the same man, the same cart, a different underground station. He's refilling the sweets vendor that stands on the platform.