He sits on the grass in the shady edge of the park.

Like he always does.

He always does this time of day.

His mop of black hair splashes over his brow.

A single, bored eye bravely exposes itself to the blinding world.

As he sits there and scribbles… …scribbles…..

Scribbles into a notepad.

And I wonder… ..Poetry? Artistry?

Is he a cavalier or a craftsman?

Ben Jonson or Raphael?

He twirls a pen in his grasp.

He sighs a long breath while everything around him is alive and flowing.

He's like the dark nucleus to a drying-out sun.

So central and yet so antithetical.

Mothers and their children squawk and skip their way past him.

A Frisbee and a dog streaks by.

Bicyclists and joggers galore….

Does this hyperactive world disgust him?

Is he living life as a stone to protest or simply survive?

Does his existence suggest disdain or desire for something untold?

He pauses between bouts of inspiration.

He rests the notepad in his lap.

He leans back with his darkly-shadowed eyes shut.

Perhaps absorbing the sun… …perhaps expelling his own demons.

He's dressed all in black, a creature of obsidian.

Ever clad in that ridiculous t-shirt.

The cartoonish ghoul in the center.

The short sleeves.

The pale….pale…. …pale skin.

Is he sick?

Is that why he lies around a lot?

Was fate cruel to him.. …..as well?

He reopens his eyes.

The wind flutters at his dark hair.

He sees it and yet he doesn't see it.

It's past noon.

He gets up, slowly.

He pockets the notepad away.

He stretches, brushes the leaves and grass blades off of him…

And….as expected…he turns northward.

And he heads towards the first thing he always heads to at this point of his daily routine.

A local water fountain.

He walks up to it.

He grasps the faucet release.

He leans over to drink.

Always thirsty.

Always…..

But he pauses.

Blinking his dark eyes.

For there is something hanging off the faucet.

Tied to a black ribbon.

A note.

Is it garbage to him?

Like everything else in this world that he ignores?

Like everything else that he is seemingly impervious to?

But he reaches for it.

He 'unhooks' it.

He unfolds the note.

Gazing at it, he stands in silence.

… … …. …

He blinks… …and blinks again….

And something happens that is unexpected.

His pale cheeks turn the slightest red.

He instantly spins and looks around and around…

An action that is almost a little too sudden for someone like him.

And yet he looks… …and he looks.. ….

And sees nothing…

Is he surprised?

Is he frightened?

He need not be frightened.. … …

He bites his lip.

His finger rubs along the note.

He swiftly pockets it, takes a breath, and fights to remain deadpan.

And miserable looking.

He fights….

Walking away.

Walking.. ….walking.. … ..and walking out of view.

I take a deep breath.

I stand up from the park bench where I have been sitting for the past half-an-hour.

I draw the hood of my robe over my head.

I hide in the shadows, gazing at the spot where the pressed grass blades start slowly to rise.

There is a joy to be had in indecision.

A joy to be had in standing along the precipice before the desolated wasteland of Choice.

And just stare in awe at the glittering telos on the other side……

But without touching it.

Without touching it… … …

I turn around and—without saying a word—teleport myself away from the park in a cloud of black vapor.

Gone.