A stranger treads upon the garden of men with blatant disregard.
Flaunting flair outlandish, speech eccentric and disposition bizarre, his is an unmistakable impression jutting from the backdrop of banality. Yet, as if blind to the stranger's intent to fly in the face of convention, nary a soul appears to pay him mind.
For all his distinctiveness, none could recall the stranger's appearance, only that it was well-kept.
For all his mannerisms, none could recall the stranger's voice, only that it was deep in tone.
And for all his enterprises, none could recall the stranger's whereabouts, only that it was neither here nor there.
The man was like unto an apparition; a conceptualized cypher given form.
Yet by no means a disembodied spectre, the stranger's stride carried purposes forlorn, and his touch wrought changes minute. Only time will tell what manner of story the stranger wishes to contrive, and in turn, visit upon the waiting world.