An old man moved down the road in tattered clothing, layers on layers to create the would be warmth of one sweater. Nighttime. Anyone out this late could be any normahl taking a walk, going somewhere, but then again they could be a little kooky. No one knows why they are out shuffling in the cold except them, and they aren't talking. The old man is. He crosses paths this those that aren't crossing. A group of teenagers that are basically kids, some stooping some standing, on the side of the road. They look a little mean, emotionless, living just another stage in life. The old man stopped and spoke My people have taken the fight out of me. I am human and less than an animal for an animal thrives in the world, they possess all roles to equal ability. My role is not the farmer, and without the farmer I can only scratch a little from the ground and hold on like a cold claw to a slipping surface. No, survival has been bred out of me. My people have taken my fight away. And he shuffled onward with a stumble. The boys looked on after him and walked the opposite way. There was nothing to take from him.
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