He feels like empty night. He is the sound of screeching birds and the atmosphere that surrounds fire as it burns and mars everything indiscriminately. His presence is the haunting of a man who is always talking but never says anything you want to hear. But he stands. And he looks as if light is surrounding him, as if God put a natural halo upon his skin to indicate that you must pay attention. His eyes are a young boy’s: unpredictable, wild even, as if he might at any time laugh or cry or yell or fall from grace. His hands are big, strong, heavy like your father’s hands, like how they felt when they touched yours, interlocking fingers of imagined promises lying in wait. His feet swing when he is sitting, as if they are a separate entity from him and the pendulum swings force that smile onto his face. The smile is divine.


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