He'd walk into the pet shop wearing that old overcoat of his sporting a mess of a beard and smelling of cheap stale wine and would confess his sins into the airholes of plexiglass cages housing unwanted cats and depressed dogs. He wore a sort of vacuum-like aura around him as people would clear and watch him with the corner of their eyes whispering
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It was dark out and raining and he sat under a makeshift roof fashioned from stolen plywood nailed together and suspended in the air by ropes tied to the branches of the tree under which he sat a lone light bulb hanging by a wire thread lighting his head and the pages. It was a little shack he built in secret amidst man sized patches of unnamed
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