Sunday, 15 April 2012


His special visitor was coming. It was his only visitor these days and he must look his best. He stood in front of a shard of broken mirror propped up on the mantelpiece among the scant debris that constituted his life: faded pictures in broken frames, thick with dust and of people he could no longer recall. He squinted into the shard, arranging his meager follicles to cover a pallid scalp before cleaning his bared teeth with the sleeve of his cardigan. His tarnished reflection grins back with a mouthful of brown stumps, his face a crumple of deep lines.

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