Day Seven. To Fall Silent

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A man and a half, almost two to be precise. The glasses hanging halfway between the nostrils and the sweated forehead. He has been standing still over there since the moment I have arrived, doing little more than feeling his own sweat. Smelling Canal that stinks of summer, enchanting, stripping old women.

Falling silent, to everything that moves, choosing to get lost once again, as every day.