Every sole seems to look at me worriedly or in this...boredom. It then reflects the crippling sense of expressing I still remain with even after achieving a higher level of socially conversing - but it all seems to be small talk, and then I do not matter. It's too humiliating and wrenching to be so self-aware and yet see myself in a mirror with this mirage of detachment - unbelonging - outsider-esc paradoxical typhoon with which my own face melds into that perception of uncomfortableness and a blankness that will never be overlooked, you know? Then I dwell into these self-aware thoughts that contradict that character, and the words do not seem to further in greenhorn significance. Taste the air and watch your eyes as you think; all what could've been, what you are and what they could've seen - you've forgotten the sense to express at this era, and although too ironic, it is not your fault.
But I'm tired, young or old sir - wisdom doesn't matter in age, and age doesn't matter in time. Goodbye, and farewell.