"He was sitting on the bench in the T station, holding a guitar, with an old, ebony-furred dog accompanying him, which looked just as old as its owner appeared. He must be among the senior citizens, judging from his graying hair as well as his hoarse, husky voice. He seemed rather preoccupied, his eyes closed, frowning, paying virtually no attention to the passersby walking to and fro around him. He was isolated, secluded in his own world with his guitar, his dog, and did not notice the curious look an Asian girl cast on him. He was not alone, as long as that girl was looking at him, watching, listening to the songs he played, wondering what he had gone through as much as what would become of him.
He had not been interrupted, for the audience, pretty much the Asian girl alone, dared not to strike up a conversation and intrude the performance. He was absorbed in his own world, while the audience refrained from trespassing. It was a mystery, though, whether the world had marginalized the man, or the mad had marginalized the world.
He might have been a confused "elite" individual at one time, getting straight As, a high school quarterback, seeing some cheerleader. Everything had been way too smooth for him and he never had a sense of fulfillment-- every success came simply too effortless. He could have conquered the world, yet being so good at everything somehow made him feel good-for-nothing. He was elected as the prom king of his high school graduation ball, yet he felt lost. He just didn't belong-- that was one single thing he failed during his entire life-- he failed at fitting in in the world.
So he graduated from MIT, receiving a PhD in electric engineering. He turned down quite a few offers-- Microsoft, Oracle, Dell-- enticing offers that one would die for-- he merely treated these with indifference. Some said he was aloof, which he would probably not deny, while his only refutation would be, he was, after all, clueless about what he should do, what he actually liked to do. Some gave suggestions, all of which he turned down yet again. Finally, he decided to carry his guitar-- he was never that good at playing guitar-- and found a T station, sitting down with his dog, singing to the passersby. Decades passed, he got old, his dog got old, yet he was happy, though still lost.
He might as well continue on leading such a life: being attached to a certain T station (in this case, Davis,) observing passersby, singing to himself, while his dog would be his sole companion. Of course he would get old, really old, yet he would still insist on going to the T every day. His dog would die, and years after, he would die too-- holding his guitar, with his eyes closed. He would die alone, while the passersby may think he is just meditating, pondering over which song to play next."
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