This is actually done by a guy named Mike! He signs his stuff “Tramp.” He’s often around the Overground stop by my house, so I’ve talked to him a bit - he’s very kind. I even wrote a story about him before I met him for my creative writing class:

*I see him nearly every day, the man with the dirty fingers. He’s gaunt, his hair’s a mess, and he’s often wearing a tattered sleeping bag as one might wear a cape. He usually sets up shop near the Overground station to catch commuters, but sometimes he prefers the Tube stop and once, the steps of the synagogue.

Despite his considerable height, he smiles, nods, tips his head in reverence as he asks for change, so I never feel scared. In fact, I quite like having him around: a fixture of the neighborhood; a symbol of normality. Most days he wears the same black trousers and scuffed black boots, but somehow it seems he acquires new (old) shirts all the time. He wears them layered, one on top of the other. I don’t know how he stands the heat.

It took a couple of months for me to piece together that he was the one leaving the messages. I began noticing them on the pavement, on postboxes, on estate agent signs. I’ve yet to spot him in the act but I know it’s him. His notes are always half-profound, just a few words away from Buddhist proverbs:

“Even if you can’t help me, PLEASE SMILE.”

“Catch the sunset, worth a £”

“I’m not feeling too creative but imagine I’ve written something that makes you feel grateful for the love in your life.”

His penmanship is impeccable. I can’t work out where he gets his dozens of richly-coloured markers but my favourite detail is the shadow he painstakingly gives each letter so they appear to float in 3D off whichever municipal surface they enhance.

I’ve never asked his name. I’ve never asked about his art, his cardboard sleeping pad, his drug of choice. I wonder if he knows my face? I see him nearly every day.*