The Man Who Thought

Every year my family and I go on a summer vacation to the Dominican Republic and every year I see the same man. He always in the same spot on a rock that is half of it the soft, white sand and the other half in beautiful green vegetation that starts minuscule amounts of brush and leaves but then explodes into gargantuan trees and vines, where all that can be seen is green. I have never seen the man move once in my life he stays on his rock from dawn to dusk completely still, just staring in the vast amount of blue with a cigarette in his hand. His eyes are surrounded by deep wrinkles like large crevasses in the earth that show years of experience and misfortune. He keeps is cigarette in his hand; he does not smoke it. The man just lets it burn and as the ash falls it begins to pile on his rock like a snowy peak on top of a blistering mountain.