xauth extract - zero:0 | ssh crash xauth -v merge -
I could number the things I knew about him on one hand. He was almost
a stranger, glimpsed briefly on the periphery of the small group that
occupied my attention during my first year of college. We had never
really talked when we were both in college, which gave us even less
reason to talk after he graduated.
I knew his nickname. Not his full name, just the name he used in our
company. For a while I did not even know how to spell his name.
I knew he had a brother, a more laid-back student I’d often seen among
the small groups that occupied the benches near the guidance office,
His brother always seemed surrounded by friends.
I remembered the way he played – the slow and methodical way he used
to set his cards down on the table, the flick of plastic-sheathed
cards confidently moved into position, the way he leaned back and
calmly waited for his opponent to make a move. He was always gracious.
I remembered seeing him at the sign-up for organizations in my first
year. He took my signature as I joined the computing society. I don’t
know why that memory endured – perhaps it was because he somewhat
resembled an old friend of mine.
I remembered his quiet smile and subdued laughter. I don’t remember
ever seeing him rage or exult. His face settled naturally into a
half-smile. Sometimes he’d get a thoughtful look in his eyes, leaning
back and pondering. It is easy to imagine him mediating some dispute
among our friends, a calm seriousness reassuring everyone of his
How quickly does a stranger become a familiar friend and a welcome
sight? I cannot count the things I’ve learned from two hours and
dozens of stories. I know this: he is one of those people well worth
I have long since resigned myself to the idea that my hands will
always be ink-stained after each class. Other teachers finish their
classes with immaculate digits, but for me it seems impossible. My
pinky finger suffers the worst, as I trail it on the whiteboard in
order to steady my hand for writing. Classes take their toll on the
side of my hand, the quick eraser I use to impulsively rub out
scribbles when the eraser would take too much time to locate and use.
Even the whiteboard eraser refuses to cooperate. As my fingers grip
the edges of the eraser in order to swiftly clear the board, tiny ink
particles are transferred to the once-white part of my fingernails. As
I wash my hands to remove the traces of ink, I wonder if I should wear
the stains instead as a matter of pride.
Deleted as I lost the secret key