Dec 23, 2011

His notebook is half-filled with the things he wants to say and write about, but nothing that he has actually written. The man feels a hunger rise in his belly—I can do this, he says, I will do this—but the pencil lay untouched beside an empty pad on his desk. The memories, they make his spirit swell and surge and wet his eyes, but he does not cry. Patience, he tells himself. Endure. And so once more he begins in his head:

"One morning at two o'clock, a young man appeared on the empty street and started walking home."


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