Except that once

I want to write a story about this man. About how he sits on a hard wooden chair, leaving the chair behind him empty, its cushions melded into the back of someone who is no longer there.

He is surrounded by things that have been used, held, owned, and I wonder how they have ended up on this pavement in Cairo, his for the selling.

There is no one line that holds all his wares together - except that once - they sat in someone else's home.

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