He sat in the Hole, a dimly lit pizza parlor downtown that had an indoor temperature roughly analogous with the brick oven used to fire the cheaply produced and generously sliced wafers of cardboard pizza, and began to write. The last sip of Coca Cola had left a salty-sweet linger in his mouth that only served to drive him to an even greater thirst. The just-slightly-too-loud hipster rock that fuzzily emanated from the well abused speakers only heightened the ambiance that he felt: obtrusive youth. Youth, that sense of abandon and carefree naivete, had always eluded him. Decrepit. Out of date and element. He didn't belong at the Hole, among the young women in their yoga pants and sweatshirts- the epitome of "don'g look at me because I want to look casual and relaxed, yet I still crave for you to look at my ass." He didn't belong among the strutting peacocks whose preened tail-feathers sawed on the olfactory even above the wafting aroma of pepperoni (and the slight twang of the previous night's closing shift's pot). They did the right things- went to the gym, hung out at the SUB, drank shitty beer, fucked. He did not. And he felt it. Perhaps it was his nature, or perhaps it was his circumstance, but he had never felt youthful. Even as a young man he had felt a profound disconnection from those around him who most exemplified the vigor and enthusiasm that can only be found in the inexperience of the young. They were in different worlds. Different, parallel existences. Momentarily, a wormhole would open and a snippet of conversation would float through. Or, he would notice they two women- girls really- who had sat down beside him. Fleeting and muted stereotypes were the only impressions he formed of those he was among. A sorority T shirt here, a goatee there. He hated them and still couldn't peel his attention away from wondering what it would have been like to have been, even for a moment, one of them. But he wasn't. He was writing- he was a writer. And writers are observers. And observers aren't participants. They aren't do-ers. And he never did.