composure

I was walking to my car, from the coffehouse, down towards the corner of raymond & lagrange. I saw this tiny, familiar figure walking briskly out from behind the bank across the street. I use the word briskly loosely; he did not have the "pep" I'd typically associate with the word, but his legs were moving quickly. He was short, considerably shorter than me, and had a small thin frame. This was magnified by the oversized suit he wore, which he must have found second hand somewhere. It was pure white (or looked to be from my vantage point) and fit him poorly. He looked like a mouse peeking out from under a t-shirt before being stomped on by something or other.

He always had this timid look about him, yet every accesory he sported seemed to try and contradict this. The suit, for one. For two, the cigarette that he clenched firmly in the center of his mouth. It looked out of place, there, a tiny gray stub poking out like a whisker.

He's screaming silently for attention. I see him frequently at the coffehouse...He always wants conversation, but when he gets it, he just backs off with fear in his eyes. Every inch of him cries loneliness, and the second it might be dissipated, he eagerly grasps it again. It's the only thing making him solid.

His nearness to people is the nearness of planets (cred. H.M.).