I believe there’s a man like me here. He sits over my shoulder, cornered into seclusion and deep observation. We differ in appearance, for I cannot maintain a five-o’clock shadow every hour of every day of my life, nor can I sport an askew cap indoors–I have too much respect for my age and meal to use a sideways brim to hide my hair and shade my ear. Unless, of course, he’s balding, then I understand because I am receding.
He scans the room, fingers cupping his chin, but I’m on to him. Perhaps, though, is it he who is on to me? I could be currently recorded in his open journal as well.
How delightful we are.