He was always asking what day it was? Curious if it was his birthday, or, Valentine’s Day, or, maybe Saint Patrick’s. He never knew. The days just all became one. One huddled mass of hours. Hiding underneath covers in his bed. A constant state of darkness.

At night time he’d go downtown and sit in the square. Just him and a statue. A bronze man on a horse. He’d touch it’s legs. Felt the smoothness of the material. He never touched anything else.

Some folks called him the village idiot. They’d laugh at him as he walked around at night. Eating Mr. Goodbars. One after another. He was real careful to throw the wrappers away. In fact, he used to throw away debris that he’d find all over town. Old newspapers, paper cups, tin cans, all sorts of things. He’d pick up quarters too that people had dropped while rummaging through their pockets. He saved em.

In his room was a giant glass jar that he kept the quarters in. He made a promise to himself. When it was full, he’d cash em in. And leave. Just get on a bus and head anywhere. Whatever town had the prettiest poster at the Greyhound station.

There were pictures of the desert. Tall buildings in Los Angeles. The Golden Gate Bridge. He’d look at em in the early hours of morn before he went home to crawl into bed.

He’d whisper to himself, Someday. Someday.

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