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He wears a neon green scarf every time he steps out of his house and it’s disturbing. Out of all the colors and all the shades, he picks neon green. Even more disturbing are his sunglasses. A pair of rectangular frames with deep purple shades, thick enough to conceal his eyes but still fragile to his piercing stares. Even after sunset when he goes on his 7 PM walks down the street, he wears them and it’s disturbing. He is probably a mute because I’ve never seen him speak with anyone as he passes by my porch, not even a “Good evening” or a smile. Perhaps the most unusual of his habits is his haphazard stops. He often pauses and stares down at his feet. His stares may last a few seconds or a few hours but no one seems to notice, and even if someone did, they would probably pass by and ignore him. I wouldn’t ignore him. I would stop and muster some courage to ask him what’s wrong with his feet or why he’s wearing sunglasses at night or how he tolerates such striking colors. But I never do. I only grab my neon green scarf, deep purple shades, and head out for my walk, hoping the dead won’t pull my feet beneath the ground again.