Watch him as he sits there, he's sipping his seven dollar coffee and glancing at his shiny watch every three minutes. He's beautiful, sure, but there's something else about him. It's deeper than his blue collar shirt and his fresh wrinkle free pants. Perhaps it's his heart that I'm reaching for and I'm searching for answers, but there are none. But of course, there never was. I try to dig deeper, think harder at who or what he's doing here in my kitchen sipping his expensive coffee, watching me in the corner of his perceptive eye, and glancing at his watch. He seems agitated or annoyed. Or maybe, he is just nervous.

But nervous of who?

No one else is here but Justin Timberlake and his lost soul.

So shut the door on your way out, Mr. Timberlake, for I will be hidden from your future and you will only remember me through captures of your grotesque memory.