He was lucid but the expression on his face was thick with blankness. Or maybe it could've been a deep, trifling concentration, a rare investment, If one was to capture it in a photograph of language, it would translate such: eyes slightly narrowed, brows furrowed, the line between them deep and important. The nose barely wrinkled, too soft to be wrinkles of disgust, and too harsh to be wrinkles of laughter. He was plotting in his head: important things. How to “borrow” the tin box of vanilla cookies in a kitchen that was not his, how to fly- he was quite sure he would be able to one day, and finally now, to position himself on the seat so that his limbs wouldn't ache, not even a bit. He must've been 9 years old, maybe a bit older. The girl across from him bore holes into his head of undulated hair: she envied the expression of comfort plastered on his face, she was exhausted, and extremely uncomfortable.
There was nothing one could know about this particular person: would he go onto something fulfilling? Would he enjoy his career? Would he have a family or live a life of solitude? Would he die old or in some car accident? So many possibilities.
Life is a dice that's been cheated- you roll over and over and never get what was predicted.