He sat tapping his finger on the bottom of his shoe, Italian leather, legs crossed.
“I really think the whole things *******.”
He was Anthony Ratier. Sitting outside a coffee shop along a crowded path.
“Its been carried on for so ******* long, nobody even considers it.”
He wore a Black Italian suit jacket. Black slacks. White Shirt.
“The one thing I can’t quite understand is how nobody else seems to question it.”
He was smoking a hand rolled stoge. Loosely rolling it between his fingers carelessly and occasionally pressing it to his lips.
“They just scuttle on day after day with such putrid confidence. I can’t stand it.”
He had a dark and sharp complexion. Long bangs of straight jet black hair hanging in front of the blue windows of his soul. The blue so bright, so sharp, so penetrating…
“I just want to stand on this chair and scream at them! Tear them from their ******* shells and throw them into oblivion!”
At this he took a long drag on his hand roll and extinguished it directly on the table.
“But no one would allow that. They’d shut me out with ease. Not a soul would hear me.”
At this he stood up and straightened his tie.
His tie.
About the only thing original on the guy.
Bright intricate patterns of red gold and silver.
With a large flower of life in the center.
“To know thyself. Ha! We can’t know the sky isn’t about to come crashing into the ocean to tear apart the hills.”
“Ourselves is about the last thing we’ll ever know.”