The man stepping off the Clapham omnibus

Everything about this character was given away in the manner of his gate. Slow but sure, now and again stopping to consider a concern of minor consignation, then resuming normal pace without much notice of the ebb and flow or general conflagration of his surroundings. Seemly dispassionate, yet regarding only what is note worthy to him and not much else. Smoothly adding to his own assumptions, without the discourtesy of comment, except out of ear shot of the hoi polloi.
 
He a stranger in the city, full of jaded and underwhelming soul’s mere markers of time, tick tock tick tock they are already embers except for the grazing and the vacant stares in shop windows.
 
Their Raison d'être written on t-shirts or tattooed on limbs all empty of meaning, like an unread pamphlet from a street preacher. Mass hypnotise in operation at the frequency of a low hum, was he any better? He doubted it’s just that his scars though the education of experience better hidden, still they knurled at him. No malformed flesh, rather deviant and judgemental character a  small failing to be aware of one’s lack of character and lack of back bone yet unable to do much about it.
 
He was as powerless to act as they did and so did not waste his time in pointless displays and small pleasures. He d seen it all but never learned to play his cards well, destiny lay in oblivion beyond the candour of even the most enlightened mind or so he hoped, in order not to squander that small part of him not yet filled with malice.