Life of the Drifter

He’s walking down the street now, cars passing on either side… the yellow hue of the the street lamps lights up the damp asphalt.
Snow fell, as it had last year, and the year before… He didn’t sleep often when it was cold, for the streets on which he slept were frozen over with cold and bitter ice. If the winter was particularly rough, he’d travel south from his city until the cold went.
No one ever missed him, for no one ever knew him, and he’d never known anyone. The city-goers would look on, paying no mind to him. He bothered no one, never begging for money, for he found all that he needed in the city.
He is a dying breed of man: The Drifter. One who goes from place to place and has not a care in the world. The kind of man whose ghost will continue to rome the streets when he is long gone…
He walks down the street still, cars no longer passing. It is dark, but there is a lit up house farther down. He peers through the window to see what it would be like…

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