Every day a photographer found that she passed by the same people in the street without speaking to them or attempting to know them. She gradually became curious about them and eventually garnered enough courage to ask them a little about their lives and took photographs.
It reminds me of when I used to walk my children to school. Every morning a woman would always ride her bike (rather awkwardly in a tight knee-length skirt) on the pavement alongside us. I never spoke to her but eventually I felt I knew her. Unconsciously I would find myself making up tales about where she lived and what she did - piecing together fragments of sightings of her into what was probably a completely fictitious life.
On odd occasions I see her still - even though five years have passed since I last accompanied Hodmandod Minor along the road to school. She still cycles the same way and is little changed. I still don't know her name or where she works - and really I think I would prefer not to know - sometimes it is interesting to preserve a little mystery.
Since I no longer have a regular routine any more there are few people I see in such a habitual way. In fact I can think of only one man: a man that sings about God's love in the middle of the square outside the town hall. His voice is so obviously outrageously happy that I think he must be either insane or really in possession of a wonderful secret. Sometimes I think I would like to know what it is.