Coffee shop fiction

Groggy limbs sitting on the sterile white stool, it’s difficult to say what used to be. Even what is becomes harder to discern with every breath. The weak chest rises and falls, inflating and deflating like a leathery old pump. The back is bent, hunched over. Gnarled hands wrap around a paper cup of coffee, occasionally bringing it to the wrought gaping hole that is a mouth.

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