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He was not like the other residents of the town. He sensed this, and so did they. They would point, and stare as he traversed the streets. Within the protection of heavily built crowds, people would mutter, spread rumours. He ignored them, after all, what else could he do?
His arrival remained an alpha point in his life that refused all hypothesis. He had no recollection of how he came to be in the town. He had the feeling that the otherís knew. The fact that he himself was the only one that had no idea who he was angered him greatly.
He stared into the mirror, and examined his sharply defined features. As far as he could tell, he looked perfectly normal. Yet, underneath the exterior, he felt something strangely artificial. Something which seemed to stare back at him, it was right under his nose, yet it managed to evade him completely. He went through the same routine every morning, but he couldn't waste time musing, he was no existentialist. He was a worker. An ordinary worker who had a job at the local mine, just like all of the other residents. He slung a tattered jacket on, and made his way outside.
He started his short journey towards the mine. It seemed to him, that the further he moved away from civilization, the more civilized people became. His residence was located in the interim between rich and poor. But out in the desert, where he was surrounded by a small handful of workers, he felt more at peace with himself than anywhere else. The foreman ushered him into the mine, and he descended deeper into the guts of the earth.
Along the walls of the cave, white lines had been etched carefully with chalk. They held no significant meaning for an outsider, but he knew the reason behind them. It was a death tally. Whenever a worker died, another mark would be added. The carvings seemed overpowering, and almost spanned the entire width of the cave.
The world is not beautiful, therefore it is.