I see some new words written on his forearm. He shakes the dust off his clothes, then rolls up the sleeve of his, seemingly too small, jacket. Visibly struggling, the man drops the sack from his back and bends in half, as if out of breath. He shows me what he's written, then wipes it with his sleeve and continues scribbling.Īfter making sure I've also read the second sentence, the man takes out a full tank of gasoline from his sack. He takes out a piece of charcoal and starts writing on his palm. Suddenly he starts to move quicker, as if looking for something in his pockets. I can only see my own faint reflection in the semi-transparent visor of his helmet. The man takes a step in my direction and pats me on the shoulder.
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