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May 8, 2004
He comes in slightly a-bluster, an open-toothed grin in the midst of a flyaway grey beard, paper tucked under one tattered arm of his suit-jacket, pockets bulging with tattered books and scraps of note-book pages scattered with half-formed thoughts. His jeans are faded like the chipping paint on the walls, like his hastily combed hair, and he drapes himself slowly onto a stool near the window at the bar. He looks somewhat startled, somehow caught between getting lost and coming home, and he folds open a copy of the New York Times to help him anchor himself in one place.