He wrote the stories.
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At night he walked with shoulders hunched against the cold wind
The collar of his fatique jacket turned up
His cloth cap pulled down
His glove-less hands deep in the coat pockets
He looked into windows
He stopped people on the streets
He stopped a woman on the street
Do you have a story to tell me?
I’ll tell you my story if you buy me some drinks
I have no money
Then I’ll buy you a few drinks
And this is her story
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