They were all over. Flamboyantly alienated in their duds and their dreads. Running away from home. Sleeping in public shelters. Congregating in soup kitchens. Loitering with their pets. Lackadaisically panhandling. Cleaning your windshield.

I found them stages. Sweet spots in the urban fabric. Long forgotten 19th C widgets of space and texture manufactured by time.  that had improbably survived the 20th C modern explosion.

They improvised their ceremony. The lens performed the marriage. And I let them Be, if only for an instant. Angels of History - only they did not know it.