A writer who couldn’t find work. An intelligent human being with no one to believe in him.
“What’s the point?” he pondered, wandering down Canterbury Street with his hands halfway in his pockets.
So subtle a question and quite simple to boot, his thoughts escaped him whenever he tried to find the proper reasoning to his own inquiry. It was a dilemma he constantly created to validate his reality. Third rock from the sun or a distant galaxy in the infinite universe, he thought out every possible scenario to which he could scientifically explain to all of his peers: “I’ve got it. I have finally found the reason for existence.”