Dada

“Look, there comes Dada,” they would say as they saw him amble closer, from two blocks away. They had seen him here for almost twenty years, so long that he had become a fixture on the avenue, like the ancient signboards and the rundown buildings that were condemned by the city housing department. The very sight of his short, squat body, walking up and down Lexington Avenue, maintained, for them, a sense of order in this random world.


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