He always looked as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. And maybe it was? Squinting, frowning, and sighing his way through life, his mind was a zoetrope of past triumphs and mistakes - all memories of days gone by and nothing he could change. His mind, his verve, his creativity, all atrophied because of this, because he could do nothing but remember, nothing but torment himself. He wasn't masochistic, and he had few regrets, it was just something he did on instinct - remember and contextualise. All those failed relationships, wasted opportunities, all things that had begun with such promise and ended in such disappointment constantly turned in his minds-eye through no fault of his own. He just sat there, as still and as silent as a statue, basking in it.
And the sad thing was he never learned from these experiences, they were just there - constantly turning, round and round.