He was clad in black, in fact everything about him was black (he was, of course Caucasian, 35ish, thin frame, hair long in back). There seemed to be a exponentially large gravity for this emaciated man, this gravity was pulling in all light, all color, all sound... he was a walking vortex...he looked black. His clothing was not just black, but it had achieved a certain sheen, a shiny look from use and neglect.. it would be the look you could achieve by spitpolishing a pair of black jeans with black boot polish. His leather coat was tight and, well black. It was not a biker cut, it was a car-coat, stylishly outdated. The lapels just a bit too long, the stitching, too ornate. On board, I watched him saunter towards me, I knew he would sit in the only open seat on the plane, to my left. Upon further inspection, his black hair and long moustache looked impeccably trimmed, his scent evoked the essence of barfights, of motor oil and of methamphetamines. I noticed a few streaks of lapis blue oil paint on his sleeve. He hunted around in his pockets for a bit and fished out a black leather rectangular case. It was thin, and almost feminine in design. He squoze it gently and a gleaming iPod revealed itself. I caught myself in a laugh, as I was sure that this guy was still a tape guy.. Motorhead; Lemmie, Dolby, hiss.. Not an MP3’er.. We settled in for the flight.