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It’s 8pm Friday night on the Upper East Side when I entered the subway station. In the distance I hear the softest, clearest, most gentle sound of a harmonica playing the sweetest chords of “Moon River.” I was certain this majestic sound was a radio blasting in the distance, but no, this fragile little man sitting on the bench was blaring notes so perfectly—it was hard to believe it wasn’t a recording. It was that good.

He didn’t go unnoticed, connecting with the young lovers, old lovers and hopeless romantics filtering through the station.

An effortless job to just sit there while he swept everyone off their feet.

Thank you sir, I hope to see you around.

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