Harry The Hermit

Harry is a hermit. With no friends, and seemingly no family, all he has are his trusty felines by his side. For those cats don't judge, they don't lack common sense in the type of way that leaves you frustrated, looking for excuses to your excuses. With his cats, he didn't need to lie about why he couldn't make it to the kitchen, and when he would be in the kitchen, he wouldn't have to lie about why he did finally make it there. It was the perfect set up, but he knows what others think. If you were to tell him animals weren't enough for companionship, he would simply tell you otherwise.
     “Friends! Humans in general! They're nothing but a nuisance! They serve only as a helping ear, listening, using their brain as a complaint box, and when the tables are turned, they're just there to create a migraine. I don't need the headache!''
     Harry doesn't have any real hobbies. He's a happy critic of fine, modern era television. But when he finds it all too mundane, he'll scurry around like a rat in his abode, combing over any artifact he can find, constantly lower his expectations after each loop. Sooner, not rather then later, he's left fiddling with nothing more than a scrap of paper, or perhaps a string of yarn. It's all amusing, but he knows what others think. If you were to tell him his findings were uninteresting, and quite frankly pathetic, he would quickly rebuttal;
     “Excuse me! This peace of paper can turn into an airplane. This sting of yarn can become a tight rope. In the end ALL hobbies are monumental wastes of time. Who needs to build bird houses? Who finds solace in going for a jog? We're all going to die and decompose, so I invest in the smaller things. I don't need to invest in anything else.”
     Harry certainly has no money. Luckily the dungeon was bought a long time again, when his existence had some cohesive resemblance of the stereotypical styles, guided by the regular evils of a regular life. To him it's comfortable, but he knows what the others think. If you asked why he hadn't gotten tired of the doldrums yawning and echoing through the hallways, he'd  laugh and slyly comment;
     “Work? I worked my way over the ledge, scratching and clawing at some sort of dream, and I got it. It got my slice of the pie. It got my retirement, and I say good riddance to the real world. A place where all the rats pile on top of each other to be the first one to reach the arsenic. I swim in the standstill waters, with the leeches, and have no worries, no responsibilities, like I did before. That's living.”
     Now Harry likes to talk, and in return only misses the real world about fifty percent of the time. How a woman's laugh can fill your gut with fluttering butterflies, or fill your head with a nest of buzzing bees. How a conversation could flow effortlessly between two chums, from politics to the odd sex related joke. He knows we know he misses it. If you asked why he doesn't just get up and out the door, he'd lie through his teeth, whatever ones he still has. His eyes would turn to the floor, starring so intensely, they become glued, as if eye contact would result in spontaneous combustion by truth. Maybe if you poked and prodded enough, he could spit something out, but it would probably be along the lines of;
     “Yeah, I miss the real world. Maybe about fifty percent of the time. At least I have that other fifty percent, what about you? What do you have?”
     When I found myself in said situation, all I could muster to say was, “About the same Harry, about the same.”