This is what he has become, far from men; A tree without roots, stuck in a never-ending present. But he walked, he took a step in front of the other, without thinking of anything else than his every step, whatever the destination, like a blind and very old king. Everything ended here, on the edge of the forest, facing the dead, sticky city, bristling with ruins of towers, black as rotten teeth, emerging from brambles, clouds of flies and infested with rats. He could see nothing and yet he could see. What could he do? He turned around, sank into the woods, the storm threatened.
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