There’s this perennial fixture under one of those bridges in Clarke Quay, one particular busker.
He’s always there, singing some old rock tunes with his battered acoustic guitar and a gaping leather case right in front of him and his harmonica.
Of busking under a bridge, I can only imagine that sensation when you sing inside the shower:
how your voice echoes and the sounds that you perceive always seem fuller; stronger; more self- assured.
When there’s hardly anybody walking down that tunnel to hear him sing or spare him some change, I always wonder if an empty tube can make a lone busker feel as bold as showers do.
For his own sake, I hope he genuinely loves to sing.
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