Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in:

… bought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered something sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before she became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as he died, always knew he was a fiction but believed him anyway. (Chapter: “The Lottery, 1791” p.15)

Everything Is Illuminated – Jonathan Safran Foer.

Complicado de ler, mas – deuses! – como eu gosto desse cara!

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