Chris sits on a park bench. There is snow on the ground and it fall in large flakes. Trees are bent with the weight on their limbs. A tall figure, clad in black, walks across the whited grass. Chris looks up, sees the approaching form, smiles ironically and drops his head to wait. After some time, the figure sits next to Chris on the bench. He (the mysterious figure) has platinum white hair, slicked down with pomade, and brushed perfectly to one side. His face is colder that frozen wind. He is Existential Crisis.
Chris: Hi.
Existential Crisis: Hello. You've been expecting me?
Chris: What do you think I am, a moron? Of
course I was.
EC: No. Not a moron. Maybe a little bit too in love with the things around you to admit me.
Chris: Hmpf.
EC: Well?
Chris: Well, what?
