The day the music died

I miss being able to write like this 😦

The Write Project

He waddled barefoot to and fro along the sidewalk, grime rubbing against his thickened soles, mixing with the accumulation of mud, dirt and gunk that had cyclically hardened, liquefied and dried between his toes over the course of alternating sunny and rainy days, dry and wet nights. His stocky, swollen frame, blackened, tattered clothes, the grease that covered his face and arms, and the thick layers of dark, rough, scabs and wounds covering his legs, were enough to cause unknowing pedestrians to stare, or to tighten their grip involuntarily on their children’s arms, or even to cross the road before they could cross paths with him.

It was hard to tell his age. With sallow, wandering eyes he often seemed in a distant place somewhere. Drawing near him one would hear a soft, constant humming, a happy, unfamiliar tune that locals had grown accustomed to and laughingly even found themselves…

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