The Stranger

Right now, a strange man in athletic shorts is sleeping on my couch.  His name is Mark.  I think he might be kind of crazy.    I might be too.

He called me yesterday at 8 am, telling me he was leaving Mississippi.  He got to my door at 4 am.  I went to sleep around 11 pm, waking up periodically to call and ask where he was.   I’m not sure if this actually happened, but I remember calling him around 3 am, remembering that he was, in fact, Sartre (Stranger — Camus — Sartre, get it?) and calling him that, and him saying “No!  Mark!” and then I hung up on him.

When he finally arrived, I instructed him to sleep wherever he wanted, and then I went to back to sleep.  So I haven’t talked to him at all.  I hope he doesn’t rob me or murder me.  Keep your fingers crossed!

sartre

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