Passing poles, passing faces, past people, his eyes did not move in his sockets. His was an unsettling meditation, his was a calm face. Behind the indifferent countenance, there's a constant tumult as of gusty winds and wavering sea on a palsy ship, toying with its pathetic efforts to hold up. Distraction offers its hand. Who can refuse? He's taken on the ride as gently as would betoken royalty. He's flung out in the world of reality as the foul bones out the kitchen which invite only the drooling dogs.
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