Tired eyes stare soullessly at you: while looking back you can feel yourself getting lost within the pools of wisdom held in the, the longer you stare the further you fall into the ripples of his past. An ancient tracery of wrinkles etched his face making him seemingly edging closer and closer to his oncoming end.   Upon his scarred cheeks and chin- from battles long ago he wishes he could forget- protrudes grey wiry hairs. His body seems to move sort of mechanically and his bones grind together, as he walks he squeaks almost like an old bike in desperate need of oiling, not only this but his skin seems withered with time, like a cliff that had been brushed by the waves so often it begins to crumble. Although he rarely speaks, when he does it’s like a tsunami of tales from a time forgotten by most people, a time in this life that seemed to be a never ending cycle of war and death. From behind a thorny bush I notice him pluck a flower out from it. He stares at it intently almost like its beauty captivates him. And finally his eyes seem no longer soulless.