Fisherman

 

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He sat under the restaurant with a beautiful view that serves the rich population of Brazzaville. He had no business being there. But no one knew. No one but me and my onyx pencil and my storm damaged Moleskine. His homemade fishing rods hung high above his over sized wellie boots and he caught fish after fish from the murky waters below and put them one by one in to his wiggling stripy bag.
Whilst up above we drink tonic water with lemon and ice. We enjoy the view and the cool breeze.

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