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The PhilosopherAn old, world-weary man, hunched over a writing desk. A sigh that can brush universes to the side escaping his lips in a desperate last bid from the insanity of the knowledge it acquired. A grey beard, peppered with the last remnants of colour soon fading from it, clinging to his face.The Philosopher in Scraps
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It is impossible to ascertain whether he is dressed formally or not. What looks like it used to be a tuxedo, or perhaps just a suit, is unbuttoned and taken apart haphazardly. Sleeves crowd at his elbows, leaving ink-smudged arms otherwise bare, braving the not-so-biting cold.
His heartbeat is strong against his temple, each surge of blood swelling it momentarily as though he has had another thought, another contradiction. Although, he knows they come far more swiftly than a lagging heartbeat. With each thump, another thousand, million, billion notions race past, the inner tick simply telling him that he is alive.
Dark eyes, perhaps brown or amber, are faded with the rest of his features, the stars too f