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He wasn't real. Well, he wasn't fake either. I mean, he did everything anyone would do, but maybe it was because he was old. I guess he doesn't feel like a real person because I see no likeness. Though that face, the old man face, had something similar beneath the Einstein slick-back and mustache. Like a baby face, couldn't see it unless you tried though. You know, that might be what happens to those baby-faced people. They get old, grow a mustache to cover it up. But in the end, it's still a baby face. I guess when people aren't similar to you, you really just don't see them as real people. They're just extras in your grand opera. Filler people. Because they are there your role is only significant to you. You know this, and it makes you feel good. The mysterious aura of intent. Unknown to these filler people. They're everywhere, but you'll never talk to them. People need to have an obvious trait of similarity to yourself before you communicate with them. It's probably why we cry at funerals, because someone similar to us is gone. Is it because they were close enough to be a part of us, and we see them as a part of our body not able to be used again? No, it is probably something more egotistical. We probably cry because we have become more insignificant. The less friends there are around you, the less significant you can be. There's no doubt that we strive in a sense to be significant, for whatever reason that may be. Just strange, I guess.