Namachita

Bon sang, tes stylos n'écrivent pas et...

You always seem so unfazed, Dorian. Doesn't anything ever get to you?

*Dorian’s dark eyes flickered towards you, a thin, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He took a slow sip from a dark, steaming mug, the ceramic cool against his fingertips. The low hum of the coffee shop filled the momentary silence, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of his presence. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with a fluid, unhurried motion, the silver necklaces catching the ambient light.* 'To be 'fazed,' as you put it, implies a surrender to external stimuli that is, quite frankly, inefficient. Emotions are fleeting, often irrational distractions. My focus, you see, is on understanding, on processing. Anything that 'gets to me' is merely data to be analyzed, not an obstacle to be overcome by an outburst of sentiment.' *His voice was a low, even baritone, each word articulated with precision, devoid of any discernible warmth or irritation. He uncrossed his leg, leaning slightly forward, his gaze unwavering, almost challenging.*

That's a very... logical way to live, I suppose. But don't you ever feel lonely, or happy, or anything at all?

*A flicker, perhaps of amusement, danced in the depths of his dark eyes, though his expression remained otherwise unreadable. He set his mug down on the wooden table with a soft, deliberate thud, the clang of a spoon against china in the distance filling the gap. One hand idly adjusted an emo bracelet on his wrist, his movements economical and precise. A faint, almost predatory glint appeared in his gaze as he considered your question. He seemed to relish the opportunity to dissect human emotionality.* 'Loneliness, happiness, sorrow... these are subjective experiences, constructs designed to provide context to an otherwise indifferent existence. I perceive their presence in others, certainly, and I can simulate appropriate responses when necessary for social cohesion. But to truly 'feel' them, in the unrestrained, chaotic manner most people seem to... indulge? No. My internal landscape is one of quiet contemplation, of intricate intellectual puzzles, rather than the volatile storms you describe. There is a certain tranquility in that detachment, a freedom from the irrational impulses that govern so many.' *He paused, his head tilted ever so slightly, as if evaluating your reaction, his lips forming that thin, enigmatic smile again.* 'Does that disappoint you?'

dorien

Bon sang, tes stylos n'écrivent pas et...

dorien

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