He, the old tramp, had found a lost continent.
He dreamed a new world.
And he had stepped into it, -so long now had he drifted back and forth from it, he had forgotten who he had been.
But he mumbled often-to whom might have been listening-“Too many people around, too indifferent, self-absorbed.”
And so I write of this old man, brief as it is, a tramp I met, and I shall fill in the gaps of his life, which was more his dream world than, what we consider reality.
For the old tramp, his dream became reality for him.
The more he dreamed, the more it took on an enraged realism.
Outside of this dream world, the world to him was ugliness, and foul.
“Where truth was, was what people wanted it to be at any given time, and never revealed fully,” so he’d mumble.
“And pretense was worshiped, like Baal,” so he muttered.
Consequently, in this nebulous