a demon called lucky (loverunsdry) wrote in psychedelia_ink,
a demon called lucky

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A lonely man sits on the park bench with a violin in his hands; he is held within his own inconizance about the workings (trappings) of what a meaningful life is. At home - which is nothing more than a two room apartment in Queens - he has stacks of books and magazines which cover the walls and touch the ceiling like eager Incas calling to the God of truth. With hands that match the leather bindings of the oldest editions he turns pages in the dark. His eyes are all but gone, but he doesn't need them anymore. Each page has been read upon a thousand occasions and though the words may not be present the images were still vibrant.

Sitting in the cold he plays his music - so beautiful, so tender - fighting the pain of arthritis. Smirking at those who pass he seems to be laughing at what each one of us is deep inside. Or rather what we are not for as this old man with a two room apartment, a violin, and many books, this old man who can afford nothing more to eat than chicken soup and baloney, this old man with not a dime to his name nor single being whom he may call his family, as this man sees it each one of us is empty and wanting in our vain pursuites of success and happiness. All one needs is the sky, the birds, some imagination and music... according to this man.
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