The map of sorrow

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It’s a chill and sunny November morning of a slavic capital.
His gloved hands seeking for shelter in the pockets of the worn-out coat, the man wanders along the wide avenues of magnificent Stalinist architecture, his head hanging down, his heart contrite, demolished by the unending and merciless blows of fate and overwhelmed by a woe which his undermined heart could not endure. He’s still young; possibly in his thirties; but the deep wrinkles engraved on his face by a cruelly fateful fortune make him ten years older. He’s tired; not of walking, but of suffering.
Now he totters; but he doesn’t halt, and keeps strolling, knowing perhaps that if he checks his pace it might mean the last stop. When he raises his unshaven and famished cheeks to the weak autumn sun, there’s a shimmer in his eyes. Tears? Maybe it’s just the cold.
Adrift, always heading nowhere, his aimless ramble draws invisible footprints on the city sidewalks, tracing an absurd map of sorrow.
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