He wasn't the grievant type. It was the environment which had an enormous role of his character development. Occasionally he would find himself wandering back and forth on that credible thought.  He would experience a distinct type of feeling he can't really grasp. He was for certain he could apprehend its existence. Somehow knowing that so called ''sensible thing'' needed to be taken a step further. Ability to think, laid within him, remaining hidden unless he was content enough to let the archaic, decrepit machine to work and draggle under the attenuated oil and the must sopping all over him. This manifestation of thoughts was often described as a renewal for him, always followed by the sense of guilt. If anyone could have dared to ask his opinion, had he already the answer written on a sheet of sand paper as evidence. In this way he thought, the idea is given an extended lifespan. He considered ideas as vital, with a ticking clock attached beneath. Counting along as it reaches its juvenescence. Counting along as it reaches its regression.
 

The sheet was crumbled up, subduedly giving the impression of its presence a lesser importance. He would always walk with his right hand in his right pocket like something was supposed to be kept hidden, secretly protecting that what he values the most. Protected just so the posibility of being delibrate remains. He often thought if he gets lucky enough, his ideas could have been formulated, executed even.
 

If he was asked he would say; ''According to my way of thinking, nobody has ever dared to contemplate. The answers that are sought, cannot be understood unless it is extensively cogitated. The discrepancy does not exist in our world. Even if one could magnify, and investigate what separates from one another, to distinguish any kind of variation would be a struggle and one would find very substantial evidence.'' These course of words repeatedly took place in his dreams. Ofttimes he wished his dreams evolving into actuality, furthermore envisaging a cosmos where, creativity and diversity endured. That indicated he had a discrete way of functioning, in their reality, from the authorities that was considered as an offense. Not turning in a criminal would have solemn consequences.

  Later on he ripped off the page he had just written from his old, battered scrap book. There was no room for imagination. Nevertheless, his compositions should not be found. He gazed upon his wooden antique clock, the mist in the room made it difficult to see. Approximately a few seconds later ''the routine'' would march. He had to take his pharmaceutics in order to consign to the oblivion. Promptly he would be the witness of his own slaughter, carefully scrutinizing his sentiment diminishing. A process of extraction from him to ''him''.