Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
Count me among your many, but count me not at all. By skin, or taste, or refrain I am but my own. But by breath, and life and wonder? Consider me your brother. I hope to share the space of ours in peace. Though I may be quiet and oft reserved, I am peace. Never will you watch my movements, for they shall not hurt you.