Costello Phright was tired. Tired of looking, and of listening, and of talking about what he experienced. He detested looking the way he did, he resented what he saw. He abhorred listening the way he did, he despised what he saw. He, however, secretly and silently savored when he had the chance to articulate what he had noticed, he relished at the sound of his own voice.
Costello had lived a complicated life; one of trial, tribulations, enjoyments, deep-thoughts, happy times, sad times, hard work, love, hate, and even song. The world and his life flashed around him, constantly, as if he were sitting next to Han Solo as he entered into light speed; except this never ended and there was no lovably incomprehensible creature to keep him company. He was after all, in all senses of the word, a "loner."
Costello does have talents though. He has lots of talents that are all too often left to the wayside because the thoughts in his mind torment him too frequently to allow to these talents to shine in all their true glory. Costello lives happy; Costello lives tormented.
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