I see you here often--bearded, shaggy, sunglassed.
I think your voice sounds gruff. At least, I'd expect it to.
You live around here. You have to. You don't carry your belongings with you, or wander aimlessly with your back slumped.
You're scraggly but clean, showering every morning in your Eastown flat. You always feel proud being one of the few people that actually lives above the bars and businesses, the hot dogs and cold beers that make up that part of town.
Creaky pipes wake you in the morning, now. It's fall, the weather's colder. Your window fogs up next to your double bed, occupied by your single figure. You smile at the sunrise
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