This year, there were still a few amateur guitarists courageously trying to emulate Elliott, but rarely finishing a song, there were the young girls taking pictures in front of the candles, the young guys burning a cigarette, and the older drunken man too eager to tell crazy stories and in particular how he, in the first years of this ritual, used to steal the half empty bottles of whiskey left by the wall and resell the flowers amassed in the neighborhood.
Strangely, the young guitar’s name was Conor and he rolled his eyes when the drunk man asked him if he was Conor Oberst,… true story!
There was some talk about repainting the wall, and more homage written between the huge and ugly graffiti.
I guess more of these things could happen at the wall, but the tradition will eventually fade away as time passes.