i can tell by the way he walks: a robotic penguin skating on the ice floor with its legs deprived by heat to surrender the remaining warmth. he was walking, his arms swaying like leaves that are about to let go hanging on an acacia's twig. one step closer is one step nearer to the end. it was cement not ice. they're not leaves but two robust pendulum maneuvered by body movement for interaction. black shirt. it was quite dim, the light that time was a small amount of moonshine, and street lamps were covered mostly with dust, which hole the size of needle's passage served as tunnels for pigments to glitter. same pair of glasses, yet his beard was untrimmed, his eyes don't tell secrets nor hide truth, his voice was passive with a hint of excitement and disapproval. he tapped my back. "my friend," he uttered. i considered a smile was sketched on his face. it was a good time. a day not to be forgotten. something to look into. an addition to moments which i treat as followers for my longing past.