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May. 10th, 2007 | 03:54 pm
mood: contemplativecontemplative

He approached me, smiling. An older man. I'd seen him many times. Knew him in the sense that I knew the other regular faces. His life already spent, the wisdom of hindsight remained. Interesting eyes burned brightly...

"You're like an owl", he said very focused as if he wanted me to know he knew, "the rest of them are like they don't know or see; you, your open. You left New Hampshire, at no time were you like this (holds hands close to the sides of his face to indicate blinders) you know you have look around. Owls, they can turn their head, look behind themselves, they see, they watch, no one notices. Us, we have turn and can't care who sees. You've got some tales."

That I do.

"Sometime, me and you, we are going to talk without interruption. The time for long stares of owl sight. You'll tell me what you've seen, my owl, you'll tell me."

He tells me about him and JC, he thanks him everyday. They're tight. JC helps him with the owl sight. "You," he says "got your pen".

I got my pen.

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