All that is visible really are his wide round eyes. They are open in the darkness of the cool night air and all I could hear in the stillness were the sounds of crickets or an occasional car passing on the lonely road by the front gate.
That's my friend, we can call him "Mr. Whiskers." He has a home, a room he rents, but he sleeps in a cemetery on the edge of the town. He has a calm way about him, a kind polite manner, and he speaks softly about basic things but he is not mundane.
He loves being in that quiet cemetery, falling asleep under the stars and he has a dignity about him that draws me in. He talks to me of the history of the town and how in the daylight he walks around reading about soldiers who are buried there and visiting monuments that he can see if he climbs the road to a high hill.
So autumn is here and as others sleep in homes behind trees that have leaves turning to bright yellow, deep red, and fiery orange... he rests waiting for morning: as another day unfolds and more continues in his personal journey and his own particular story that I wanted to share.
The "mad ones" don't have to enter screaming, and they can burn softly... but I have always been drawn to those who live on a road less traveled and who are interested in different views. Just because.
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