I watch you and listen to your conversations. I am a behavioral analyst. The world is my office. Those people sitting over there, a group of writers focusing on their laptops. The guy on the end gently bites into his toast. He writes thrillers about mass murderers. The fellow next to his has chubby fingers and looks like a mixed marshall arts fighter. I'm betting he writes romantic poetry because he hates his image.
People have been driven mad by my constant analysis. So I have no family.
This what I do, seven days a week. I am well compensated by large corporations.
Wait. The woman writer with the cane is watching me.This is unexpected. She is one with me. An outsider. A watcher.
We should meet and compare studies.
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