Wistful

I am seeking wistful people. You know them when you see them. They sort of amble along, not focusing on anything, in no hurry to get anywhere. A wispy sadness envelopes them, like thoughts of a long lost love they will never see again. You want to hug or at least touch the shoulder of a wistful person.
You need to be a certain age to be wistful. At least 45. Perhaps younger for Europeans, except Germans, who are strangers to this experience. It's all about being near or in Paris. In fact, wistful ones carry around Hemingway's A Moveable Feast. It's best to wander side streets at sundown and dress lightly while sharing your wistful feelings. Don't say anything; just give observers a forlorn expression and wrap your arms around your shivering body. Women do this better than men, although men can light a wistful cigarette more effectively.
As a writer, I need inspiration; perky people are poison to be around if you write; they can be so annoying you want to become a Hemingway character and throw a punch. Optimism has its place in daily affairs, but not in a serious novel. Writers must practice standing at a window, preferably high up, and gazing at the world below as if they are carrying an enormous weight and are trying to make sense of it all.
My problem is whenever I try to be wistful I don't watch where I'm walking and trip over a sidewalk crevice. Or forget where I left my car or where I was driving. If I'm late for your dinner party, go easy on me. I am trying to be in the moment, a sad, wistful moment.