Among all the strange and unusual people in the city, he never failed to turn heads because he was a strange and unusual that didn't belong. Ducking under the lintel of the front door in the old brick building where he lived, he would lope in a slow, loose way to the market. He seemed to have more in common with the farmers selling their wares than the urbanites buying them, but even they looked at him as "other".
Clothes became merely draped fabric on him. Even when chosen correctly for size, they hung and flowed and didn't conceal the fact there was nakedness underneath. His body seemed to move independently of any outside influence.
His hair, dark where not struck with grey, waved, tousled, too long, not long enough, eternally windblown, never seemed to be newly trimmed or freshly washed.
Some would say he was old. Some would say he merely looked that way. Hardly anyone could tell you the color of his eyes.
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