I often feel like I'm this somber old man living on the top of a peak, a man who spits down on the town he has detached himself from. He crosses his arms and walks with somewhat of a hunch from standing tall too often.

His favorite phrase is "What do they know," and he wears a gray suit most days even though he knows no company will visit. Eventually, his disposition turns to that of a mixture of fetid peach and insensate gray. He owns no pets, because they're too demanding for his liking, and spends his evenings looking through the only window overlooking the town.

I fear one day he will have surpassed his allotted amount of frowns and his lips will permanently stay in that contorted position. Then he will begin to worry, and eventually he will cry; the first tear in 67 years. 2087 will forever be the year he besmirched his own self.

One day I hope someone goes up to him and asks him a simple question. Nothing too complicated like 'why?'. No, that would cause him to laugh superciliously. That'd make him want to throw them right out. They would have to ask something very simple, and it would forever be a Rumplestilskin chase.

In the end, he'd just return to his window and fold his arms. Scratch his cheek when nobody was looking (not that there'd be anyone -to- look) and ultimately stare. The same stare he'd been giving. The half-eyelid-shut stare. The I-don't-know-why-I'm-even-looking stare. The praise-me stare, and most importantly that Don't-cry-for-me,-I'm-already-dead stare. He'd just stare.

The truth. The truth is that I'm somewhat of this man right now. Not sad, nope. Not mad, or angry, or even happy. Just disappointed. Just goddamn disappointed that he turned into the person that everyone always thought he eventually would.

-300.-