Waking from a dream once more, the old man sat up by himself, as if he were the most intricate machine, putting on his favorite old sweater, even though it was frayed, even though the beige sweater had now grown somewhat pale.
He fastened each button one by one, his slender hands had lost all their muscle, leaving only skin wrapped around bone, full of wrinkles, full of the vicissitudes that time had brought him.
He took the black, slim-fitting pants with patches from a chair beside him, put them on, and then buckled his somewhat aged leather belt onto the waist of the pants.
The last loop was already somewhat too big, wasn't it?
With such a sigh, the old man changed into black leather shoes, very old by now, but they were a birthday gift he had cherished for a long time.
Snow was falling outside the window, and the old man turned up the arcane lamp by the window. He stood up and walked toward the washroom.
Washing his face, brushing his teeth, just like always.
