the price of freedom is high

Steve Rogers is entranced. He doesn't know how long it's been since he stopped to watch, but his guess is that he's been standing in place for at least ten minutes by now, and he has no intention of leaving any time soon. In that time, the artist squatting down by the edge of what becomes the pier has created three works of art, each more masterful than the last. The man has splayed a trash bag over the ground and works only with sheets of glossy white poster board and cans of spray paint. With these, he creates scenes of far off worlds from his imagination, places that resemble the distant ends of the universe and ancient kingdoms found only in storybooks. Places like Narnia and Middle Earth, the surface of Mars, the byfrost leading to Asgard. The man appears to have unrivaled imagination, and an even greater drive, for he doesn't appear to be stopping any time soon. He's selling them for ten bucks a pop and already Steve is certain he'll be buying at least one, but for now, he can't bring himself to stop watching the artist's process unfold. He knows his own way around a pencil and sketchpad, but it's nothing compared to the creativity and ingenuity displayed here today.

It takes a moment or two, he's so engrossed, for Steve to finally realize that he recognizes the face belonging to the blur of yellow hair hovering in his periphery, and he turns to his right with a smile. "Hi," he smiles. "We've met, haven't we? In the library, I think it was. You're a fellow New Yorker."