#slightly nerdy

but the truth is i don't feel like i do.

it's like i exist only to myself and to my words

and i don't even know who will miss me when i die

tell me - will you search for the photons that bounced off my smile? when you warm, will you wonder if perhaps that warmth was from my energy? will you remember that energy can be neither created nor destroyed and thus, i'm still around?

and if you remember all that will you say, sobbing i don't give a shit if she's still around, just less orderly i want her back! i want her back!

tell me that, my love. tell me that you will weep if you lose me and break your heart over my absence.

Often plays naive and/or slightly nerdy characters

Skinny frame

Often plays soft-spoken, sensitive characters

His wide expressive eyes

A sad man, a beaten man.

A cruel man, a pragmatist. One who once stood one hundred feet tall in his peak, the political authority on every nuance of his beloved Florence. A man who once held power in the palm of his hand, sat at the right hand of thrones and whispered advice to the moneyed elite. Someone who looked through the lens of history, saw it repeat itself again and again, like a grinding wheel. Over the centuries, names, dates, humanity is reduced to dust, and only the wheel remains. An endless cycle of civilization, if only we could find a way out. Untouched by riches, eager to devote his life to his city, giddy with the rise of the Medici and crushed by their fall. A scholar who was obsessed with the machinations of a sniping gaggle of feral city-states, a veritable breeding-ground of deception and loyalty and brave men and cruel men and beauty and struggle. Someone who could see beyond their petty little squabbles to the untouchable beauty of politics underneath. He deciphered the code, he found the way out. He was on the top of the world and rode its spin.

At the end of his life, now, hunched over a candle in a bare little cabin in the countryside. Alone. Exiled. The hands that wrote this book remember what power felt like, still bear the scars from when it was wrenched away. His shoulders still hurt from the torture, on damp nights.

He picked the losing horse in the race and watched it break its legs. He watched as his carefully laid plans crumbled, saw the man he looked up to get torn to pieces when every sign pointed otherwise, when every instinct said he’d win.

He wants his life back, so badly it hurts. Beneath the stone-hard exterior of his words is a torrent of emotion: desire, loneliness, sorrow. Fear. He’s writing a book which will never be read by the one intended, dedicating a love song to the world which turned its back on him.

When he’s long dead and gone people will say horrible things about him. They’ll look at the desperate words of a dying man and see cynicism. The entreaties his arguments make will be rebuffed. Cruel men will take his words, twist and distort them and use them to justify unspeakable things. Self-righteous men will pick and choose provocative statements, orphan the meaning, and brandish them to a voyeuristic public.