It’s ironic, he thinks, that he’s washed-up and dried like a man who has lived for too long, but he still feels dirtier than the underside of his sandals. He can’t tell whether the crinkled on his skin are from laughing at others or from some force of nature trying to cross him out of existence.

Criss, cross, and the lines run over his body.

He has beds prepared on every elevated hill, but even so, the place he lies in is never his own. He never sleeps alone anymore.

Tonight, as the evening fades to grey, he watches the outline of clouds as they drift by, and waits for someone to descend and take him home.


Blah blah blah

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