The Stoner

There be a stoner, a mighty old one, wrinkled skin, twisted toes, frail and fragile, as if a tiny little nudge can dismantle his assembled soul. He’s not a person, not at least now, may be once, but long forgotten. Now he is a shadow of a soul. He is fragmented so is his mind. He would talk you through rubbish and say nothing, but then when you least expect it he says the thing. Spec...

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