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The Chronicler

It was already lunch time and he had nothing.  It dawned on him that if he continued like this he would not be able to pay the rent and would have to hit the streets again.  Living in the streets was not pleasant, it wasn’t for everyone but he had managed for eight years and, perhaps, he should go back to doing just that.  Despite the cold moments of winter, despite the starvation he often suffered, for some reason he missed those days.  He missed being carefree, not having to clock in and out at set times, not having deadlines to meet with his articles.  He wrote when he felt like it, or when he felt that inescapable urge to say something, to raise his voice and let people know a piece of his mind. All that behind, now he had a rent to pay, and a deadline to meet.  He had chosen to go back into the the mad world that the majority of people populated.  Even though he was aware it was not his natural habitat; even though living in the streets or, better still, somewhere in the count

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