Writing and Blog



He had everything but the pith helmet: the worn leather boots, the close-cut khaki jacket and matching trousers, the bow tie, the tortoiseshell glasses. Ropey strands of sandy-grey hair washed up over the bald dome of his head like seaweed on a shingle beach. His lips were wide and fleshy, pink and dry. A cloth-covered canteen stuck out of his jacket pocket.

His stride was long and easy, and his dusty boots ate up the city sidewalk. He knew where he was going: somewhere far from here.
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