Monday, November 26, 2012

Thousand: Nine Hundred Forty-Four

about. But, you know, who doesn’t? He stirs the coals with a stick, and a swirl of golden sparks dances up from the circle of stones. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thinks irrelevantly. I’ve been a king more than once. I’ve been a mendicant, a pauper, a doctor, a thief, a blacksmith, and a farmer. A slave. More than once. He covers a yawn, then rubs his face. Lots more than once. Some lives I even remember the other lives. That’s nice, he thinks. But there’s something to be said for forgetting. Nearby a camel snorts. An angel

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