The Old Man Is a Lost Art

The old man stood there staring a hole right through me. Hey, lu, it's nearly freezing. You need a jacket? No, thanks. Seem to feel the cold any more. And then there he was, standing in front of the old fun house building. They had it converted into something called mister wizard's hall of mirrors. Oddly appropriate. Sometimes they come back real good, retaining all mental faculties, memories. Sometimes that don't work out so well. They come back fragmented like a stroke victim. Oh, they're all in one piece, but something's missing inside. Some part of their immortal soul didn't make the return trip. Best to aboid