I flinched as his warm hand clasped my shoulder a little too firmly. He leaned closer and I could feel his breath spread across my neck carrying with it the damp inquisitive whisper: "Are your dreams as profound as your waking life is banal?" He handed me a shirt, one size larger as requested, and limped away from the changing room, returning items of discarded, creased clothing to their perfect display racks.
Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,
and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.
