He walked in, his silhouette gleaming from the surviving light. He was a traveler i could note; he carried in a rucksack of theories and phrases, his smile as gentle as the whisper of the whistling wind outside.
Taking down an empty table, he sat across the moonlit window, t'was already 2100 hours and the bell of the tower just made the clock in time. He sat, took out his manifest of notes and started scribbling. Placing an order for a large glass of pint-beer he was surfaced with thoughts; clouded with emotions and circled by eyes.
Everyone was noting his unmethodical behavior.
A large, well-built man impressed the hostility to stay put and mind their own business. Yet, here he was, the proud old bully, a tall sleek wanna-be-gentleman; void of all positive.
Spacing in, juggling tables, he approached the man, "Are you from the North?"
The humble-man gazed at him, poked his rubber-mounted pencil and engrossed himself in; following the trendy country-side, minding his own business.
But a bully by nature, he rose, "Are you from the North?"