August 23, 2011 in C
He sat in a crusty heap. His clothes wrapped around him hardened with dirt and filth are his comforting armour. A portable shell he carries with him wherever he roams. Roams he does, compulsively driven but from what he has long forgotten. From time to time they catch him with food and make him shower and take away his armour. They tend their world to him. He hates it. He feels clean and visible. Unprotected he will need to stay sharp. It takes weeks to condition his new armour, to become invisible again.