How much can you get from just one glance? |
He is the enigma. A delicate ashen butterfly that all so ardently believe they can clasp between their hands to examine, only for him to slip silently between their fingers with effortless grace. A dark, mysterious silhouette lurking in the shadows at the back of the room, a phenomenon forever on the periphery - you can never quite catch a look at him, ‘cause the moment you do, that’s when he’s gone. We’ve all seen him before, that’s indisputable - everybody knows who he is. But no-one can quite remember when or where. He exists in a permanent state of monochrome, captivated by old Hollywood movies and aching, aging books that he holds delicately between his pale, slender fingers adorned with a wrought metal ring And black- inky splotches. His whole world is black and white, yet it seems impossible that he could exude less colour. His presence alone is a silent blistering whirlwind of kaleidoscopic charm, an intoxicating manner about his posture and form which leaves an unspoken trail of hypnotised eyes following intently after he passes. He is the effortless captor of everybody’s curiosity, the envy of every enchanted gaze, the figure of boundless fascination to the countless minds which muse tirelessly through insomniac nights, minds revelling in the need to know him, the need to figure him out. He is the silent poised figure resting lightly against the brick wall, sipping on his black coffee, who’s fleeting gaze you catch for just a moment, and in those twinkling eyes, as black as coal, you catch your breath as you see then, that dark sparkling secret that everybody knows but no-one can quite articulate, and you, as all others, are rendered powerless against his spell. And then he is gone, walking with a grace of pace that professes no destination or urgency, as if each step it’s self was pleasurable enough a past-time, and he slowly slinks into the shadows. |