Sometimes he liked to think about what things would be like when he was dead. Would he smell anything? Would there be music or voices? What was nothingness like?

He was very bored tonight. It had been at least six or seven years since he had had a conversation with anyone. Such was the nature of his work. No one in the cafe looked very promising, either. He had wandered into some sort of collegiate eating establishment, and everyone there seemed very intent on their studies. He took out a piece of white lined paper and started practicing his signature, just so he wouldn't look out of place. He was starting to get very good at it.

It was strange to think that there were documents with this very same signature floating around, which could conceivably outlive him. What would happen to his signature when he died? If this little project of his turned out alright, he imagined his signature might be worth quite a bit of money.

He could just see the tip of someone's head bobbing slightly above one of the chairs. This one seemed a little overly enthusiastic about his work. This was the sort of fellow who got things done. He admired him for his work ethic. And his hair, which he seemed too busy to care about. But he also hated him slightly, and he was still bored.