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November Ninth, Thirteenth Year, 4:35 PM
There's a new child with us today. I find myself watching him far too closely. As an added cliche, the boy posesses light blonde locks and glacial blue eyes. So far I have observed that he's got himself a rather dignified and aristocratic bearing, coupled with a thoughtful and silent demanour. His height is prodigous, indeed, and he bears the title of David. As if I did not suffer the loss of enough time at the indifferent hands of beatific males. He has an extremely charming habit of resting his elbows on the tops of his desk, interlacing his pale and delicate fingers, and placidly peering over the whole. Large are his comely features, large his full coral lips, large his well-formed nose, large his serene and resplendently blue eyes, yes, gorgeous, fringed with golden lashes as they are. Even his eyebrows seem to have been perfectly arched by God. Ridiculous! When he peers at me from under that finely wrought brow, I find myself stunned. A parched and wretched human, anxiously drinking up his beauty with my ravenous eyes. I relish the sight of him, his delicate and soft hand just barely stroking his chin. A regular Adonis, he. While it is true that he wore one of those hated sports jerseys, he's a white cotton shirt underneath it, and the collar of the latter perfectly accentuates his elegant loveliness. On his feet, a pair of mundane snow-white tennis shoes, and on his long legs, a pair of worn pants that could be called olive green, or, if I wished for them to seem less glamourous, puce. Besides the beauty of his hands and face, I've noticed that he's barrel-chested, and perhaps slightly overweight. Nonetheless, his face is grand and I shall content myself by gaping at him. Not only are his features expertly molded, but his voice is melodic as well. Deep, it is, and strong. It does not crack and waver as does Andrew's. Yet, as previously mentioned, he is a silent being as far as I know, and I only beheld him uttering one single word, though the timbre seemed of handsome quality from the single brief tone. "David," he had said, in response to the question pressed him by the white child with the voluminous afro. (I don't know his name.) While he did glance at me often, it may have been because of how I bored into his cheek and milky throat with my stare. Whether or not he listened to me read my paper, I cannot know. He merely looked as loftily bored and taciturn as he always does. Let it be known that while I gaze at him, I do not wish to know him at all. I only appreciate his beauty, and naught so strong as love or base affection is wasted on him, the melancholy fool. So much for him. Now I must sit, twiddle my thumbs, and wait upon my Inuyasha.
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