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Sheltered in a grey sooted rag and hair a shade lighter from dust, I smoked away a pipe and ran out of tobacco. Desperate. I looked around for anybody.

There, I spotted a man in a black trench coat. I knew he wouldn't refuse.

"A fella can do with a little hard cash, huh? Care to lend some for tobacco?" I approached.

"You're smoking a pipe and asking for money?" He asked disdainfully.

"What made you come down to this I wonder. Or, should I suppose at some point you were richer than you look." He edged away.

Taken aback.

"Well, I made this mistake, and that's what happened!" I defended myself, distressed.

"A mistake does not make a man poor. You make a mistake to come around and out of it. Probably some bigger wrongs did you in?" He said.

"Think to yourself." Putting a cigarette in his mouth, he dropped some cash, and walked away.

Cash... That is no cash! Only a penny or two.

"Miser!" I spat.

Angry. I smoked the pipe again.


And then everyday. Staring into oblivion. Thinking. Whatever smoke remains, intensifies, obscures my vision, and burn my eyes. I drop a tear. The smoke absorbs it too.