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The Novelist Standing wrapped in a thin blanket of white wet dirty snow, he stood smoking a cigarette the way he usually did. Out of the side of his mouth, with hands, slightly unsteady, portraying a man out of time anachronism boyhood lost persona. Once, after reading A Tale of Two Cities, he declared an affinity for Sidney Carton, the anti-hero who died a far, far, better death for the sake of love. However, it was the restless, smoking, late night wonderings through dark empty Paris streets for which he felt a familiar longing. That's how could be found on many a fitful summer late night, pacing the smooth wooden floors of our home. Always with the cigarette, usually a glass of whiskey, often spinning a crackly old vinyl "Dream of The Blue Turtles," preferring, Moon Over Bourbon Street, slow and mournful, even for Sting. He always seemed to be shaking his head slightly, even when he wasn't actually. Not that he was sad really, simply resigned to existing between the days. So, as the engine whined out that whirring followed by the clicking, it seemed entropy and Ice had finally defeated our old Chevrolet. He stood framed within the frosty whiteness of the frozen windshield. A subtly imposing figure in the long black overcoat, which seemed to bring him a minor joy in the few languid winter days that Texas let slip by. Dropping the tiny cigarette remains deliberately casually, warm breath, smoke like in blue-gray air, while gazing skyward he mumbled Fuck. All that needed to be said, really, on the silent journey back into the warmth.
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