the lost man chronicles
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the lonely grey soldier

“Oh, oh.”

For there, shimmering gloriously in the shower mirror, glistening righteously at the edge of a freshly cut sideburn, was the stub of my second white hair.

The first stands sharply, jetting shamelessly from atop my mane, and has boldly brandied its fame as the lonely grey soldier for at least five years now.

Until now that is.

And standing at the precipice of turning 37, I am looking over the edge into heaven and smiling, sincerely pining to dive into the latter half of my life. For it feels as if I have only barely begun learning how to live, and I am eager to put the lessons I have learned into practice.

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