…lies a pathetic creature of habit. So vile as to burn your eyes blind, should you cast your gaze upon him for too long a time. Haunted by demons of a horrific past, or a victim of sheer lunacy, telling tall tales; weaving colorful yarns, his mind simply mad.

I often wondered of his angst; whether it was genuine or completely contrived; the product of trying to emulate the lives of those great minds whose books he consumed – not once, nor even twice, but endless, countless times; as a drunkard takes to wine; believing to have glimpsed his soul, on the yellowed crumpled pages, between the lines of others words.

Forever lost, questioning reality, obsessing over the meaning of existence and whether or not he’s really here; leaving a trail of pain and tears in his wake; feeding off whatever scrap of emotion he can evoke and they willingly give; feasting on regret, as it’s the only feeling strong enough to remind him he’s alive.