He shakes hands with neighbours and strangers, as if he knows them by name and by fame. But it’s by his words that he’s caught in a trap he couldn’t see, and he can’t escape until the sleep is gone from his eyes like a bird in flight.
He likes his sleep too much though, taking a little of it here and there like sipping from a cup of mulled wine. He likes to fold his hands, not in thought, but in the lack of it.
It’s gotten to the point where he can’t tell whether it’s a habit or a character trait, but he doesn’t think that matters because it’s not like he wants to change. Life is much easier that way, as if it rolls off the tongue in the same way words do.
Easy; his life is easy and lazy, reeling in the leisures of royalty until the cloudline goes down.