Yes, Joseph was very different. A simplistic behavior, if insufficient, he had vices, so stupid, that the opinions on his existence were more of pity than wonder. No one took him for granted, OK, but he was not celebrated either. (His first verbal encounter with the lady in the park and the rolling balls is loquacious enough to bear a testimony to his social status). Anonymity was the wrongly embellished watermark in his empty laughter, anonymity which he preferred to name solitude and loneliness. His moments in retirement were the ugliest. Many blued under the verisimilitude of satisfaction, a few were consumed in the dreary vaults of hibernation and the remaining, the longest, scratched away the last bits of pride and amour for his self. His heightened ego, often was the cause of this seclusion and deterministically eroded away to the ideology of nihilism. The notion of meaningful existence was the target oh his idiosyncrasies. The desire for a classified objective in his life was, perhaps, the only cause, he ignored his incognito reality and the intangible forsakenness.
He wasn't thinking consciously now. The dominant thought in his latent sub-conscience was the phantom of satisfaction. The disturbing part of the same was the threat of the ever issuing mutiny, the mutiny which would be born out of the success of the reigning satisfaction, the mutiny which was, phenomenally, the dormant agent of the existing schism within his faculty of reasoning. Desecrated? Celebrated?? Huh... did it matter any more?
The clarity of the cause, the causality of his presence were reasons enough for his assumed state of pseudo-satisfaction. The extent of reliability on the choices he had hitherto made, was the cause of unrest. "I shouldn't have told her..." " Should I tell her...?"
"...Because you are sure you never can tell..." The song played listlessly in his ears. The visibility was growing fainter with the light. The glaze of the dust-smitten sun was no better than the subway bulb he was standing beneath. The sharply outlined silhouette of a twosome slowly broke into a vision, resembling that of a wet stratosphere. There were no more shadows stamped on the asphalt beneath. The sandstone mansion had survived one more day of gruesome battle against the array of sun rays and the sun, finally, was forced to retire. The mauve was swallowed by the leaden sky.
But the wait was still azure, and Joseph, still satisfied.
