the man on the grass where the park meets the street is haggard and slow. I looked at his beard as he watched me run past. he wore a weathered black coat and long pants without shoes. in a different time and place he might have been dressed for a funeral. I was scared when I saw him in front of the bushes. his eyes were dark and completely unguarded, like he had seen the end of the world and lost any reason or will to play pretend anymore. he stood still and I ran faster to get out of his sight. when it felt safe I looked back. he stood motionless, watching cars pass between his feet and the outlet stores.
when I get home I shower and slip into my clothes and the safe embrace of routine. I write someone else’s dreams in someone else’s diary.
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