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“He didn't speak. He croaked. And when he croaked, he didn't say much. He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there. His face had wrinkled into strange runs and mounds of unattractive flesh. No light shone from his face.” — Bukowski
He didn't
speak. He croaked. And when he croaked, he didn't say much.
He was neither liked nor disliked. He was just there. His face
had wrinkled into strange runs and mounds of unattractive flesh.
No light shone from his face.