He sat still and solid, looking out, through rain streaked windows. It was 3:40 in the afternoon, technically, although by feeling it was the darkest, bleakest night of the soul. If there could be a time 6 hours later than 2 a.m., a little pocket before 2:01 a.m., this is where he would reside, with skeletons and lost elephants and empty, discarded skins. It is the stony grip of melancholy. Every weight pulled at him, at his jowls, at his pantlegs, along his forearms, inside his gullet. Suddenly, his eyebrows sprung to the middle section of his forehead, the bags under his eyes deepened and his eyeballs protruded 2 mm further. His jaw went lax. His nerves unknotted and fell to the ground like icicles after an earthquake. He was ready to launch his deepest worry, his freight train of angst, his quicksand of ponder, into the world, in a quiet way, with total loss of control. With blank eyes, muscle-less lips and no wind in his hair, he vaunted forth:
“Dare I eat a peach?”
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