There's a man, tall and lanky. His breath the smell of cold dank spaces. His touch the spider's leg, brushing down your skin.
There's a man, whose face nobody has ever seen, but you can always feel him, when all the noises become apparent, and that little nagging feeling, of the one behind your shoulder.
There's a man, he is always grinning, like he knows a joke that nobody else knows. You can hear his breathing, at the edge, where you hear those noises from the corners of the world.
There's a man, sometimes little children play with him, spinning round and round and round. Trying to catch a glimpse of the man who they know is always just out of view.
Sometimes children catch him, the way children do. Spinning while forgetting why they were spinning, they catch a glimpse of the man by surprise.
Sometimes children catch him, then some are found inconsolable and crying. They grow up to be scared of the dark and of being ever alone.
There are others though, the ones with only a single slipper as evidence of their existence in the middle of a park. Or the ones, the young ones only remembered by a crazed aunt or uncle, muttering and arguing about a nephew or niece, or son or daughter, that nobody else remembers.
There's a man behind you. He is breathing right by your shoulder, reading about himself along with you.
Be careful as you turn your head now, be careful not to catch him as he is distracted.
Don't want you to become another missing story, remembered like memories of a false life.
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