I write things sometimes

I write dumb stories sometimes. That's the basis of this whole post.
Recently I've been writing some things that are thematically similar with interpretations of tarot cards. Tarot cards are also kind of dumb so really I guess my dumb stories do them full justice. That is all, and here is the most recent one:

In the old days there was a town that contained a great market. A town in a place along the great sea and past the iron downs that bustled with activity every day; A sea of exchanges. Coins turning hands, goods given in exchange, words passed from person to person. Through the exchange of all, perhaps the most wonderful cane from a man that lived in the middle of it all.
  In the morning, he would watch from the rooftops, his eyes jewels that reflected the liveliness of all he saw. As soon as the market opened, he was among the people in the square, asking for coin. In exchange, he would give what was needed. A poor man given house for the night, or a woman reunited with a lost child. The man made these things a reality without a second thought. Kindness in exchange for kindness.
  And every night as the suns retreat saw the close of the market, he would return to the rooftops, watching the Sun's death, and waiting for the birth of the moon.
    Every night he would visit a tavern to give the coin he had taken in the day. Nothing in exchange for the hollowness found in the cold metal. The keeper of the taverns say nothing and take the coin graciously, knowing he would have it no other way. The man would then take board, to which there would be no complaint. Kindness in return for kindness. The cycle completed.

  The morning once again came, as did the market. There were shopkeepers set up peddling their wares, and mothers with children perusing and haggling. But on this day, the man was nowhere to be seen. It was not spoken, but every man at the market felt this loss. The crippling emptiness as if a friend had no words, or if a lover gave no hand to be held.
    And for the first time, the market came to a gradual stop. An impasse shown in the lack of someone in need. Resolved to find him, the people at the marketplace overran the stalls of goods, ran through every street with a common goal. The man watched this procession, a sense of completeness, but also one of sadness at their passion in searching.
   The people reached the end of the city in their journey for the warmth of the joy the man brought. Seeing nothing else, they found nothing but the cold and misery of a fruitless search. The warmth they knew was no longer, the last alley leading them to the coldness of death.
   The man lay with a knife through his heart, and a missing coin purse. His life taken with his little wealth as if they were the same. The children wept, their mothers unable to hide their shock. The keepers of the shops could find no words as they carried him back to the square. It was there that they rose the stone that made the main street. Digging a place to put their grief to rest.
  The gathered the coin that he had given, all of it unspent and lay it in the grave with him. Watching his simple life buried under stone. United once again in warmth, escaping in each other from the cold world. He watched this with a smile and took to flight, escaping limitless, into the air. A life lived in poverty, rightfully departed in wealth.

I'm not going to link where I post these because the place I post them is also dumb. There isn't anywhere else for it though. I'm also not going to assume that you want to read any more of them because it's rude to make assumptions and also they're not super great. They could be better but meh. Drink some hot cocoa or something and enjoy the snow. If there is no snow when you're reading this, recall a time when there was snow. Now mentally superimpose the snow onto everything around you. Now have some hot cocoa, and enjoy the snow.