He's thirty-nine years, two months, and seven days old today. His face is old, and worn. His eyelids sag droopily over his eyes, and wrinkles cover his face like a zebra's stripes, and in the Tuesday September morning, on New York City Subway 6C from the Greenwich Village to Times Square, he is wearing his double-breasted wool Giorgio Armani suit with black and dark grey pinstripes and Oakley sunglasses--Which cost four-thousand dollars, but he managed, through someone he knew, to get them half off. His lips are bright, but chewed, and in the brisk cold of the early morning, slightly chapped, although not bad enough for him to reach into the inner concealed pockets of his suit, and pull his Chap-Stick brand balm out of his coat. His feet bare the mark of A. Testoni, a renowned shoe designer working out of Paris, whom he had met personally at his showing in Madrid Spain in two-thousand-two. His hair, was crafted, not cut. It was a work of art--not a 4-sided straight edged trim--and was dyed black, and slicked back in a perfectly coordinated direction. His eyes, specifically his iris, although if you had been on that New York Subway that day wouldn't have known it as it was hidden from view by his glasses, was a bright blue. Unnaturally so, in fact, and rightfully so to be called unnatural as it was. In his eyes were non-prescription contacts used to transform his eyes into a crystal pristine cornflower blue. Under his suit, barely visible through the straight-pinned four button suit, is a white Armani shirt, buttoned all the way up to his Adam's Apple, and in the shirt pocket were two ball-point pens--one black and one blue--both designed by HerzerCraft, and costing upwards of seventy-five dollars each. He preferred the black one, especially when signing documents, as it was crafted in platinum metal, and had a nicer grip than the blue pen, which was crafted out of a maple wood mostly, with steel rings to break up the monotony. He found that many people, even though the black pen was more comfortable, really appreciated the design of a hand-crafted wood pen, especially as a symbol of wealth, and so even though he never personally used it, he carried the pen on him at all times. Around his neck, tied neatly in a Half-Windsor knot, is a dark blue pin-striped Versace silk tie, imported straight from Italy.
And this man, he has no friends, no family. No ties holding him down. He is free. He is rich. He is unstoppable. In his selfish sense of righteousness, he has everything. The little center of the world that everything revolves around.
And this man, this man he is nothing, but his wallet. He is but an object, owned and possessed by his own self. A screw in a world full of drills, he is but a tool for society's modern image. And this man, this empty man with his Armani suit is the American dream. What we, as a populace aspire to be. Millions of years of evolution and look what we become. Emulators of fashionable society, and slaves to our wardrobes. And this man is nothing.
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