There were third world vendors set up on the sidewalk. The old man walked through the dying city. It was dying into a broken down cart. With only hints of it's once proud stature, like a museum, that had packed up, and left a couple displays and posters behind.
He walked with his dirty drab suit, through the foot traffic, everyone looked poor and
desperate.
It was the reason he chose that town. It had nothing left, but it's culture.
He had dirt and a two day shadow on his face, but he could not see me.
I followed him back to his room, and into his room, and into his closet, where I hid, where I could see
him in all his glory, that Reporter, banging out visions, on his machine.
And I was fascinated.
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