the old man edges along, his palms crushing the backs of chairs searching for something like home.

i despise him in this moment: i loathe his paunch protruding shamelessly into private spaces, his shoes- lumps of plastic fastened carelessly with velcro.

i sniff arrogantly at this fountain of filth, catching an unmistakable stench: it is death, draped over those shoulders- a ghastly garment leering at all around him.

but