A creature of habit and old haunts. Transpiring wise wonders of mythological findings, eclipsing all reason within his own deception. Imposed by the sorrow and dismay of the weeping willow, his foresight distorted, refusing to believe anything past 1929. Born in a world foreign to his ideologies, his struggle to maintain the belief and the acceptance of determinism hung over him like clouds of old earl grey. Mondays would always remain redundant. Surely if there was a god, he wouldn’t have just rested on the Sunday. Notoriety was never too far adrift, the ability to walk in peace became an unsavory routine. They would always stare. Piercing eyes lay siege to his noble circumference, offering little mercy.