Since the past, he had watched people; growing and evolving, into a society of romantics and Casanovas; treating romance as fashion, adorable yet temporary; being fools and getting fooled by sugar-coated words.
His panda eyes grew heavy with each scene made. It was as if a stack of scripts had been done on all the relationships in his life; each one was tailor-made to fit into the situation seamlessly, with each dialogue fitting the mouth cavities of the lovers/actors and the takes went smoothly. No mess, no pain (but we all know that's a lie).
Every spectator knew the lines by the heart, and every confession became cliched. Romance held no glory at the present, yet it was infamous; by word of mouths, by conduct of idiots. Mutual adoration was a laugh and intimacies were aimed to hurt. Every red became black and pieces of fragile hearts were burnt in incinerators, if you know what I mean.
Still, he stands there. At the same spot. Aging, but never moving.