Me, Myself and I

S. K. Nicholas

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Down an alley that branches off from the church, there’s a bench where I sometimes go and sit after dark. The bench is damp and hasn’t been painted in years, and I’m pretty sure no one else uses it apart from me. Which is good, because it’s my bench, now. All around it, there are trees that are not dead but are hardly what you call living, and they shield me from the windows of the houses nearby. It’s a seedy place to hang around, but smoking my cigarettes while listening to the far away sounds of town makes me feel just right. Not too close, and not too distant. That’s my preferred state. I let others get near, but then I keep them at arm’s length because these secrets of mine deserve respect and I can’t go allowing the grubby hands of others to come and smear them with the…

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