At a latern lit crossroads I met an impossibly old man holding a clock and smoking a pipe, weeds grew from the cracks in his velvet top hat and his old great coat. He talked for a while about shrubs and foliage and the shadows behind him which could never quite be seen, We drank from a bucket of wine and I fell asleep upon his lap dreaming of cloistered halls and flickering sunlight, by morning the spring air was already drifting insects from his beard onto my face so I made my leave, pausing only to steal his shoes.
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