1.17

He was macerated paper pulp, wet and clingy and full of unwritten stories. I had been listening to him for a half hour already, and every time I poked a word in, he bounded off it (rebounded, really) into a reiteration of the old topic as though what I had said were a question and not an insightful comment designed specifically to let him know I had not only heard of but was bored with the thing he had chosen to tell me about. He was a very well-intentioned person and I honestly had nothing better to do. Why not?
Alas, not every sixty two year old substitute teacher has good stories.