Transitory Delights

What he liked to do, most of all, really, was pull on a thick pair of socks, and climb into the heavy sweater given to him by his grandfather and sit out on the back porch in the autumn morning, and read. Between chapters he smoked and thought about the words, rolling them on his tongue, letting them escape through his fingers as he moved them against the imaginary keys. In perfect moments of complete silence, rare as they were, he liked to imagine someday, he’d be on the other end, his words inspiring these soulful moments in a stranger.


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