He was self centered, like a bulls-eye on a target, in a somewhat pointless existence.
People all around him tried to connect but fell short, their points impacting only on the fringes of his personal indulgences.
Occasionally some sleek, sharp looking lady took a fling and pierced his seldom touched persona.
Together they scored, in a momentary rush but then the truth of how little he grasped of their togetherness set gravity in motion as she fell away.
Most grew bored with him, finding other far more welcomed targets to embed their hopes in.
Eventually he languished each night in his personal bar, impaling many plugs of cork and then removing his pain, in shots that only satisfied himself, blurring the loneliness, in the center of his soul.
He wound up in a nursing home, his exterior parts full of needled marks, wired together to machines, that sustained his empty heart, till the circle of his life, wound down to a bright red spot, in a fixed position on