So here we are, sitting here, lurking at the guy across an aisle. Under a yellow tee with a print that reads “Sorry, I’m Late” which is just a bit looser than what we could call it slim fit, revealing the figure of this guy in his early-twenties. Isn’t it nature’s test to men that not if you work out hard, you naturally result with figure with what people call, very romantically though, a love handle, which usually barely outgrow the chest, making a triangle of your body looked at laterally. That is only in athletic ground and beaches can you see triangles, upside-down. Really is some scenery.

This guy is no exception of the natural kind. Reading a book on the desk, his hair stands still like grass, though black, in a green house sheltered from attack of even the slight of air flow. Down to the back his spine reveals as if a group of high mountain range, diverging rain to its left and right, each peak appears rockier but gradually fades away, for what you may call fog, another mountain range, or simply a chair, for the first you hated in your life.

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A descriptive exercise.