"I believe Camus was right. You can never ignore the absurd, so why choose to dismiss it?" he says, his voice a dreamy remark of the night; cigarette curling into a haze at your vision.

His eyes a downcast; his hands a usual, subtle shake to them as for his tendency to fidget. He reaches up, and five of his fingers intertwine with the slight curvy, soft locks of his red, partially gel-infused hair. His choice of scent was pleasing - to say the least - a light, relaxing rosemary fragrance.