Milton

I shall call him Milton.

He was an average man. So normal and plain that most people never really saw him. He was always moved to the back of a conversation, or mitigated to a silent observer for a monologue. Which always brought a deep moment of clarity for the speaker. They would often proclaim him a great listener and surely he would be thought of as such if they ever thought of him. But they didn’t.

If you picture Milton as a slumped, rumpled, chump you’ve done him a disservice. For Milton always stands tall. Though he isn’t tall. He’s too short to be tall, but too tall to be short. He’s just sort of middling in stature. He makes the average feel tall, the short feel taller, and the tall, well they always feel tall. I’ll say one more thing, though you may find it strange, some days it seems as if his height has a range.

Now, if you picture a face that was pale and downtrodden once more you’d be wrong for his countenance was never sullen. Milton had a smile that made you feel welcome. It was far from glamorous, but so familiar that you’d smile back with thoughts of old friends, family, or home. It was this way, of setting people at ease, that got them talking as much as they pleased. But his smile never stood out on its own. You couldn’t get one person to picture it clearly for it just called to mind thoughts of home.

Now I come to the biggest revelation, that Milton is not one of us, no, he’s a stranger. I don’t mean an unknown person. I mean he comes from some other planet. How else could he be so fittingly normal? He makes us all talk and go on much too much, and then we forget him like a pleasant dream upon waking. We’re just left with this feeling that something’s occurred.

But now I know this Milton for what he, or it, is. And I’ll get to the bottom of his dastardly scheme. The only thing that stands between the world and he is me.

I wrote this nearly a week ago it seems. Now, for the life of me, I can’t recall who Milton seems to be.

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