A moving face was pressed on the glass, a familiar face that made its way past the outside of my bar arising an indelible impression that once incarcerated my heart and lacerated its district. I smiled then, with a garden grown on my wound, and only heard the faint voice of a patron before I made for the door and watched the pallid silhouette turn into the building up the block. "What the hell was that?"—as I walked back in. "I thought I saw a ghost," I said with a concluded half-smile for its unoriginality.
Originality can be overrated