100 — Years

In the lonely Kapilio (taverna) of my village, 100 years and my respect is seated by the window, his pain the aperture that encases the glass. The abrasions on glass line up in perfect symmetry with his waning silhouette.

The curls of the peeling turquoise paint on rustic window have seen as much if not more than his years have. He glances away from the window for a moment, aimlessly he searches the faces of the other occupants, a blankness…

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