Mr. Jones

Mr. Jones

Ah, Mr. Jones,
a pleasant surprise to bump into you in all this bustle.
It's not often one sees a man such as yourself give into the scrutiny of the public eye.
Not that I frown upon your secrets-there's nothing more I respect than one's privacy,
yet simply put,
you are a mystery,
and for this reason I come to you a curious man,
seeking answers to a question I am still searching for,
for you see, Mr. Jones, I am a man of philosophies,
a collector you might say, looking for the perfect addition.
Now your way of life,
it seems extravagantly simple,
reclusive, hidden,
without heed of religion, visible limits, or greater ambition.
It seems to me, Mr. Jones, that your life lacks a purpose,
but such an assumption is a damned lie, as a man without purpose
isn't a man at all, but a shell of a man, and you,
you Mr. Jones, still have the air of man moved by the life that surrounds him.
So I am curious, what keeps you going toward the end, the endless end,
the end of life, the end of some unknown goal,
for if we are all mere mice in life's labyrinth, we all have our cheese,
some object of motivation to keep us scurrying toward the imminent domain of death.
So what is it, Mr. Jones? What is your cheese? What keeps you going in this life?
What drives that mentality of yours through this dreadful monotony?

You married a supermodel?

Well, Mr. Jones, you have earned my distaste, as a man such as yourself shall never enjoy
more meaningful fruits, nor of the legacies of our race. You, my fellow being, are merely a pawn played by your primordial urges, weaning content off the most basic flaw of man.
So now, Mr. Jones, I beg your pardon as I take my leave of you and your most Gaul-ish lifestyle.
Good-day-sir.

By the way...

Does your wife have friends by any chance?