He sat in his old Shack,white fluffy hair brushed back on his scalp.
He wore an old house coat which though bare with old thread weaves was clean for an old man.
His face betrayed no pain of his past,
His frosty grey eyes looked to distant past,
And a present future.
His past, his present and his future were all fused
And locked in a time warp at a distant corner in his mind.
They had no influence whatsoever on his life.
They were not real anymore than heaven and hell are real to the living.
It was now beyond him to feel resentful.
His once beautiful hands were now thin,
But still beautiful in a way of an old man.
For if a man could have beautiful hands that always elicited envy of ladies,
Then old Baba had them.
His well worn sandals were clean beneath the withered…
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