Amory Blane

She had once called him the Walt Whitman of his generation, save his impatience with pens and paper. His words seemed to follow as if from a divine force and he was but the medium. She realized now, he was less the Whitman type and more so the Fitzgerald; more specifically his self manifestation in Amory Blane. Every pain he felt was surely the first of its kind. His love was the purest of this dimension. Each word he spoke was infinately more orignial than its predicessor. Of these things he was sure. Convinced only of his humble superiority, he journeys through life alone and feeble. He thurst for someone to connect with on a deeper level yet seeks only the vanities of the world. Well liked by most, or so he believes, his pride is easily hurt yet. Indeed, he and Amory would have been the best of friends; true mirrors of the other. She remineses of the days she still saw Walt Whitman. It is times like these she wishes he was still here.