he smiled and smiled as if he were willing to play the villain if necessary and that’s the way of it in my neighbourhood he was slightly fleabag you know the type vaguely disaffected stinking of skunk and sweat he spoke low and slow didn’t give away too much he played a private game no one knew it’s name all human suffering resided in his eyes but he didn’t seem to care he was nearly clued in almost wise his were written memoirs pen and paper torn from life he was veteran of some ancient revolution but he wasn’t a victim he was a survivor he’d seen thousands like me eager to impress with my vacuous knowledge but he was a book closed to me “…nothing matters anymore, the war was lost long ago… …I stopped resisting the flow and learned to let go… …it’s not the best of all possible worlds, but it’s the only one we know…” he was an individualist and if he ever got lonely he didn’t let on he’d been weathered smooth by millennia of dust and rain I was an acolyte - he’d send me to the shops but nothing he said was news to me nothing he said seemed real
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