The Burnt Man

He was a burnt man. His clothes were crisp with charcoal, his breath dark with the taste of smoke. Now and then, bits of him would dry up and break off, greasily smearing the lives of those he brushed against. Each week, a few more ounces of him turned to ash, and you knew, looking at this dwindling man, that one day, the last of him would crumble and blow away on the wind.

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