One does not always know what he can do, but he nevertheless instinctively feels, I am good for something! My existence is not without reason!...How can I be of use, how can I be of service? There is something inside me, but what can it be?
If you are a dreamer come in
If you are a dreamer a wisher a liar
A hoper a prayer a magic-bean-buyer
If you're a pretender come sit by my fire
For we have some flax golden tales to spin
He stares at the cellist, and feels himself relax as the music seeps
into him. He watches as the cellist's hair smooths itself out, his
beard disappears. A dirty tuxedo becomes clean, shoes polished bright as
mirrors...The building behind the cellist repairs itself. The scars of
bullets and shrapnel are covered by plaster and paint, and windows
reassemble, clarify and sparkle as the sun reflects off glass. The
cobblestones of the road set themselves straight. Around him people
stand up taller, their faces put on weight and color. Clothes gain lost
thread, brighten, smooth out their wrinkles. Kenan watches as his city
heals itself around him. The cellist continues to play...