Nestor’s torn, brown robes flapped in the wind as he pleaded silently for alms from passers-by. Having been tossed aside and forgotten, he crouched, bowing in respect and in desperation, not worthy to gaze upon them, for he was twice-cursed with the misfortune of having been born mentally unbalanced and lame. Nevertheless, he smiled invitingly, his face covered in ingrained dirt, offering companionship to anyone who would take pity, and while many ran past screaming, he found solace in quietly humming his special song which put him more at ease. Whatever was happening to everybody around him was not good. Has everyone gone mad, he thought to himself as a young adolescent raced by him, making Nestor wonder if this one was also told to leave by his parents. Of course in his mind, he had brought it onhimself; he was to blame for everything. He would be good if they took him back. Alone he limped along seeking charity from strangers, but only ill-stares and stones were thrown in his direction for all his efforts and yet, in all his innocence, he still believed the world to be good.  He turned to his left and perceived someone robbing a corpse’s robes of its possessions.


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