I spend my days studying philosophy, finding meaning in art, soothing my soul with mellifluous music and writing poetry to record my vociferous muses. I visit the shore when skies turn gray, burrow my toes in the sand and listen to the solemn sound of sea tugging solid ground. I prefer my notebooks bound by leather and my suits as refined as my mannerism. I speak at table of cosmic grandeur and the intiricies of life, the crossroads of purpose and potential. My body is young yet my mind is aged as fine wine. There comes a time when a boy must ask himself what sort of man he'd like to be, but perhaps my formality will be the death of me. I desperately seek a guiding light to stray me from my thoughts at night. Perhaps I should dull my wits and practice practicality, though I'd much rather not, for if I wake from my dream, I'm unsure if I'll ever find the real me, or perhaps I've already killed him long ago. After all, I'm my greatest foe.