18 Jan
Full house today, but my stammtisch is empty. Sitting in front of it is a guy with a notebook. He looks all around at the drinkers, talkers, readers. He watches the people who sit down, stand up, and make their way across the crowded shop. He looks up at me carrying my coffee, but shields his book with a subtly-placed hand when I pass too close. My amused mind concludes: he is a novelist; a poet; a writer of some sort; a casual psychologist. And I can only assume he is doing just what I am doing.
This makes me a peoplewatcherwatcher.
And this means… I suddenly glance around somewhat suspiciously, as it occurs to me for the first time that there might be a peoplewatcherwatcherwatcher watching me watching him watching them…
– margin, Nero’s

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