He was the mayor of a town with a population of one.
He always held his bowler hat with his left hand so that his right could hold an unlit cigarette. He'd been holding the same one since 1983.
He had fake police lights on his car and he would pull people over for no other reason than to ask them about their day. No one was ever mad.
They said he smelled like Christmas and it wasn't until he moved into the house under the waterfall that anyone actually bemoaned the passing of the holidays. They didn't even celebrate the new year until he came home; it was still the sixties in his old town.
Once in a while, he would slip tabs of drugs he couldn't name into his coffee so that he could experience something worth experiencing at his very own kitchen table.
With a marked appreciation for butter croissants, black and white films, and well bottled wine, he lived with the ecclecticism of a European in a time far behind his own.
Moderately expendable, occasionally proposed to, and thoroughly misunderstood, he climbed up trees in his spare time so that, like the birds who flew, and the rest of the things that did things, he might be a thing that some thing would write something about someday.
Too many cloud fields blocked his passage and the exit that he usually took to get from the French quarter to the Latin quarter to the library and home again. So instead, he stayed in bed and thought about the ways that he could hang a flag on his ceiling without ever letting it fall.
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