The man without pupils.
With his slender fingers clasper around the handle of the leash, he let his guide dog lead him the way. Soft steps echoed in the nearly deserted shop he had entered. It hardly took any seconds before he could here someone make their way over to him, his ears picked up the sound of the person’s footsteps, and knew exactly how far away he stopped from him. ‘Can I help you?’ he could hear— what seemed to be a male in his early forties— say, as to which the corners of his plup lips curled up. ‘I’m just looking around.’ he replied.
He’s a blind person, a man born without pupils. He’s someone that lives in his own world, has his own morals, his own friends, his own idea of what the world looks like— despite it not even being close to what the actual world looks like. They call him insane, for spending every single day out, seated in the park at the very same spot every day, fingers tangled in the uncut grass, enjoying the scent everything around him. They call him insane, for talking to his friends, those friends that live inside of his head, merely because they’re not able to see them. He blames it on them being blind, as they are very much visible to him, they’re his friends, and just like everyone else, he talks to them.
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