“George was a pirate, but he wasn’t a very good pirate.”
The old man sat on the steps of the library, muttering these eleven words over and over.
He didn’t take any notice of the rain or the passers-by.
Saying those words in an endless loop.
Like some mantra, chanted by a guru on the bank of a mystic river to appease the gods.
And then he stopped.
Standing up slowly, shaky, bending over… falling down the steps.
Landing at the bottom, lying still, face to the heavens.
Were those tears, or was it just the rain on his face.