Stratocaster / horrible perversion of all that is right in the world / Millibar
There is a man sitting in an armchair by the fire.
You might recognize him; you might not. He is of indeterminate age, neither tall nor short, a little on the thin side perhaps. The look of abstraction on his face seems comfortable there, as though he spends a lot of time lost in thought, but once in a while he blinks and meets-unerringly-the gaze of whomever happens to have glanced his way.
He would be entirely amenable to conversation.