Here he is, on time. Every morning, I meet him to buy the newspaper. He waits for me; waves his hand. I’d like to pretend I don’t see him, but just seems pointless. He stares at me. He has a hello for me, then it’s always the same old story: earthquakes, threats of nuclear war, decadence, mortality, injuries, ailments, his religious and patriarchal childhood. Words and rhythm never change. I feel a tightness in my chest. I am elusive. I try to shut him up him. I keep hoping he will change interlocutor. He looks at me. Clearly, he doesn’t know discretion. I tell myself that Socrates also accepted the cup of poison hemlock and drank every last drop.
a raven circles dark
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