So there he walks,

he walks with the flavor of zen.

As a line flows through a page of boxes

The fluidity calls the eye but its canvas is planned.

He was well worked.

The heart skipped as his structured stature leaned in

So well practiced, his lean was as a bow.

But you could see he bowed to no one.

A man with this much freedom would wretch if his knee touched the ground.

His words spoke:

“Tell me civilian, if I was to die today but a replica of myself was to appear tomorrow. With all my intricacies and memories, would my dearest mourn?”

To which they replied:

“Would the replica be asking me the same question?”

He smirked and released his lean.

His last utterance sounded:

“You do not know who asked you this question, so now I must go on.”

Hitherto the spectator had never pondered with such profundity

Is he a built man or is he a man that built?

Is he both?

Maybe he is none.

What was certain was that they now thought.

A cunning plan made by a man of squares and lines.

They remembered that day for the rest of their life.

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