Wednesday, 2 June 2010

His hair had began to feel like a warm, comfortable hat, he felt its weight and length keeping his ears snug. Sometimes his skin felt like a too tight jacket. The sky was all different colours today, different sections of sky bleeding into different shades. Cutting didn't help. Here was a dog, forlorn, forlornly swishing its tail. It looked at him beseechingly. I cannae help you pal, although I empathise with your anguish, complete tedium, boredom, the consensus of banality that weighs over us all. He walked on. Why did the dog think he could help it? Was it a look in his eye, a benign, carefree look in his eye? Now he understood how a woman might feel amusement or even contempt for a pleading, desperate lover. We are all alone, he decided happily.

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