I do not care what people think, I try not to. Silent glances, smiles and words of insecure reactions are at times a frequent occurrence in my town as I go beyond the average male routine of visual practises. The older you get the less you care what people think of you as now I do not necessarily want to fit in nor waste time with people who are generally not nice. Of course I have a multitude of friends but I shy away in a melancholic manner. Who of them share a love of my obscure worldly interests, very little if any. If I isolate myself and spend time alone I do so deliberately as I would rather not spend time with people who could not care less about me as I am sadly used to it, but then again, there are some genuinely sincere people I do consider dear. At this time of year the night comes fast and like in any other season the rain and wind bitters me as it flattens my hair. I seem to always carry a brush with me when I go out and at college the odd classmate compliments me, likewise the customers at my work. Last week or so ago I was stopped in the street by a girl who normally sees me on the commute to college, also a student there she has appreciated my style from a far for a few months now and that she finally had the courage to approach me and speak to me; all this unbeknownst to me until our discussion. It is great to have someone directly show a genuine interest and affection in my dress sense and look, at that time I was wearing something different but here I am wearing all black evoking rock and greaser subculture.