He

I sit before my reflection. Perhaps, I could brush my hair. I glance at the telephone; the same that adorns my desk. My mind speaks. It repeats a telephone number. I could call him. But would he understand? There is nothing to understand though. Yet for no reason at all, I am sad. He looks for reason, for logic. When he finds none; he scorns at it all

He thinks this to be... (This writing, this feeling, this thought, this idea, this me)… a product of a complication of simplicity; a product of a relentless romantic mind; lacking in rationale, a Metaphysicist of youth.

He is a parody of my trepidation.