the hirsute gentleman

The hirsute gentleman proceeded hither and yon, his great tufts emergent like ancient dismal secrets from the hemlines of his vest. He smoked despite himself and constant, his dense moustache stained city sunset yellow and coiled into the corners of his mouth, rancid from spit and chewed up with foodstuffs as he ate or otherwise. He reeked foul like trod soft onions, the streets parting about him like a Red Sea of disgusted flesh alive with its own scorn. In his youth he worked in high finance, the story went, but he turned ghastly post- some kind of personal or spiritual epiphany, the details were hazy and likely fabricated. No matter, said most. It figures. He asked for nothing and wanted for less, had reached a type of harmony with his surroundings that were of urine and sick and excrement, of the basest functions of existence. He felt at ease amongst his own emissions and others and meditated his path to eventual submergence into them, self-loss, which must surely, he considered, be imminent, where he might finally be nought but they. When shit sank him he would soar he would, he confessed at the graveside of his long dead young. He would.