The stranger smelt like dung baked in cologne. He moved in forethought subtleties. He sat in his neighbor's purpose, on command, staring at his smart phone for direction. He was no more convincing than the old man who sat before him.
His person lay buried in guts he hadn't searched. The lack thereof was as visible as the ensemble he wore. I pitied him, gave thanks the world never turned me so weak, and asked higher powers to give him the courage to know his self.
But he was convinced his identity was the world's duty. So he played a part he never contemplated. Despite his efforts, his audience was the wiser. They thought little of the man who owned so little of himself. Actors were more common than chairs.
