Too proud to even hear the word. Claims to breathe the very concept of nuance, yet never holds true to his own idea of subjectivity. Is humbled by few things, and the things that do manage to bend his hocks are consistently unexpected: the arts, music, birdsong, and the unguarded flesh of the soil.

Carries an unexpected knack for bridging the relative with the surreal, often drawing conclusions that are peculiar in the upfront, but prove themselves to be unnaturally sensible with time. Misses the feeling of being unseen; hates the idling gaze of objectivity. Walks with failing eyes and a lantern teeming with too much oil, defensively claiming it is not a metaphor for anything at all.

Terrfied of bugs.