The Visitor

He began in Heliopolis clutching an urn of liquid fear, just in case he was needing a drink. It's contents thick with hesitancy and doubt. For years he would wander sharing a drink with some. Singing melancholy of his bucket; orating to a can full of people that listened without hope. They only had a ticket to pandemonium, yet they hung on for eternity. He never did get any peace.