He wears his decadence like a rumpled shirt left on the floor with the bottles of whiskey, the empty boxes of Chinese takeout; thrown on out of habit, thrown on cause it’s enough. There is a heaviness about him, a lethargy built of long silences and blank stares. He always seems to be on the verge of some exquisite or profane knowledge, some cosmic joke, like Zeno’s tortoise, just beyond his grasp. The nihilist cant chatters in his thoughts commingled with the fractured sights and sounds of the internet age; the visceral world receding further into the distance. He doesn’t smile much, frowns less. He is not unhappy.