A paunch gut and a speedy nose, the middle child of three, both now a man and my foe. Not in a fiendish sense, but in the place of a deterrent; one that would not allow me to fulfill my own time as I incessantly metered his watch during his slow decline.
The man was wildly incoherent for most of his mid-life, which was for him, only the age of 32. I had not the intention of predicting his short lifespan, but it was rather impossible to dismiss, being part of an ongoing conversation amongst the ones who knew him the worst.
I would not like to trifle his life; conversely he was one of my closest friends. I would only like to say that I knew him, and in knowing him I instinctively did not trace his steps, seeing that they were ones only a fool or lonely heart would dare to take.
Perhaps that drops him into one of the two tattered categories, which would probably not offend a man with so distended a stomach. As a man like that lends himself to consumption, but little else.
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