15 November 2005


A much less funny story from Indigo.

I sat across the plaza from him for almost an hour as he lit one match after another, after another, after another. Each time he lit one, he would hold it for a moment, as if considering it's individuality, and then he would carefully, deliberately blow it out.

The ground around him was scattered with matchsticks, like the chaff from the threshing of one of Eliot's Hollow Men.

The matchsticks made sounds like rat's claws on the polished plaza floor.

I watched for almost an hour. He only went through part of one box in all that time.

By the way, my town isn't like this every day. But close enough.

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