The Loon sat quietly next to me after I offered him a cigarette.

A kind man had bought him a coffee.

I've seen this man before.

The Loon has friends.

He sat down next to me and forgot his coffee.

I brought it over to him.

He was lost in the smoke.

What thoughts were swirling through his head was anyone's guess.

He felt part of a bigger thing.

He wasn't alone.

He had friends.

Simple gestures of a cigarette or a coffee made his life bearable.

No one would want to be in his shoes.

Kindness eased his journey.

Maybe he was in the state of death.

Only he could tell us what awaited on the other side.

He'd go outside and spit out a boogy caught in his throat.

And he'd come back.

I'd offer him another cigarette.

He'd take one out of the box and light it up then put the lighter on top of the pack of cigarettes.

The female Loon was sitting outside drinking a coffee.

The Long House, for all its pitfalls, acts as a sanctuary for those too far gone and insane.

I try my best to keep polite company.

If you find looking in the mirror disturbing, I'd suggest you go to Star Fucks. They even write your name on the cup, in case you forgot it.

'My name is Richard and my grandmother was buried a day after she died.'

Then the Loon disappeared back into the streets.

We all have our lucid moments, and this was Richard's grief-driven one.


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