Following a pace, not to save face

In the middle of Berlin's prominent Museum Island, there is a young woman that claims a pillar and drums away on an exotic instrument. She doesn't seek attention from the traffic of tourism nor does she make eye contact with an admirer. Next to her is a bronze bowl where she accepts donations, but never in a proactive manner. She is the quintessential street artist, yet with reservations. She doesn't fit in with the German monuments yet the music she makes is nothing short of monumental. She does not race against time, but just paces along with each passing hour. Her life is a rhythm. I had so much to say to her, yet to interrupt her art would have constituted a shameless act. I envy her. I pity her. I love her. I hate her. She is the epitome of freedom locked up in the barracks of a practical world.