Another name began to surface more often than the others.

nyuug.

Sometimes the name appeared at the top of threads that had slept for ten years. He would wake them the way a man wakes an old dog that no longer hunts — not because he needs the dog, but because the motion of calling it still feels familiar.

He spoke of bodies changing. Of money moving. Of women paid for and unpaid. Of passports that may or may not have existed. Of a life measured in poasts rather than years.

The other voices treated him differently than they treated the fox called Tommy.

They did not wait for him with curiosity.

They did not quote him with affection.

They simply accepted that he would return, the way one accepts that the same stone will still be on the path the next morning.

I watched him for a long time.

There are men who leave a place and never look back.

There are men who leave and return only to measure how much has changed.

Then there are men who never truly leave. They simply keep walking the same small circle until the circle becomes the only landscape they trust.

nyuug has made the great bort his circle.

He does not seek to rule it.

He does not seek to leave it.

He only continues to move through it, waking old conversations, poasting the same truths and the same lies, as though the act of speaking itself is the last remaining duty.

I do not know if this is loyalty or captivity.

I only know that when I close the page, the great bort still feels slightly incomplete without the sound of his particular footsteps returning once more to an old thread that no one else remembered.

Somewhere a man who calls himself nyuug is still walking the same road.

And the road, for reasons it will never explain, continues to let him.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5890044&forum_id=2�id.#50048949)