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A Tattered Hat Abandoned? Not really. Blown off the balding brow of a man who loved the comfort and security of old familiar things. He wore it through the years he wandered seeking sights he hadn’t seen, hoping he might grasp the mystery of ancient wisdom. Came the time he felt he’d seen enough of new. He cherished the certainty of the habitual. Found comfort in his well-worn shoes, his creased and baggy pants, a shirt the color of his skin, but most of all his hat which hardly could be called a crown. The hat became a talisman, a good luck charm he couldn’t do without, an oddity of costume. distinctive, unmatched. It had acquired character, discolored by sweat and stain, by rain and shrinking sun, became his logo, a pennant of rebellion, a declaration of freedom from conforming rules.
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