An extract from a book ill never write -1

He’s a curious fellow, and for what seems like an eternity, I’ve been watching him all night. I have no real reason as to what is intriguing me about his character other than that he seems like a grand sort. If only I could catch his attention, I could find myself learning somewhat about his curious persona and why he is sitting in this lonely cafe, smoking his throat raw, captured in his own thoughts. Why even in this dimly lit room, with its flickering lights and the sound of jazz emitting from the radio on the counter, I could sense that he was built for big things and I was interested in knowing what exactly those certain things were.

I glanced around, attempting to scout the room for any potential individuals watching me like I watched him. Noticing no one, I walked towards him with a pack of cigarettes as a potential offering or gift to help begin the conversation. It was as I was only a metre or so from the seat opposite him that I noticed tears trickling down his face. Why was he crying?

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