I Watched an Old Man Spit

I watched an old man spit today. Sitting at the train station, the aged unassuming man with black leather loafers, a bright red folder, oversized jeans, and green striped polo shuffled slowly up to the yellow studded precipice of the platform. Retired, most likely I thought. Heading into the city to stroll through the park and watch the trees dance in the wind against the cityscape; to visit old friends, smell old smells, and walk the streets he used to walk when his pace was quicker and eyes were sharper. He probably loved once, deeply — deeper than anyone his junior could ever know. He probably lost once too — a loss much deeper than anybody his junior could ever know — an old man with an even older soul, who has lived life in accordance to the values that make life valuable.
Standing at the edge of the platform, hunched over and swaying back and forth slowly, he cocked is head back slightly, summoning Cthulhu from the depths of his throat, and hurled a wad of saliva onto the top of the tracks. And at the point, he became a charlatan. A man of many years who has spent them skimming the surface of existence, fearing death because he knows not yet what life is.