Mac moved slowly now, shuffling in his ragged, filthy suit. The front of his brogues were worn through and if you took the time you would see a grimy toe poking through the broken leather. His hair was matted and streaked with dirt. Wispy strands of silver hair hung lank and long from his chin to his temples. The sort of beard from a fairy tale that would likely house a mouse.

Mac spoke to no one as he made his way to the canal in the morning and back to his bed every night. He took no part in any activities and looked straight through anyone who tried to engage with him.

Barometric in his bearing now, Mac embodied the dying of the world.

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