A man neither seeking nor sought after, neither regularly wise nor occasionally ignorant, John Francis Hughes (“Jack” to those comfortable enough to smoke unfiltered cigarettes and sip single malt in close quarters on unrelenting nights) is a simple connoisseur. He collects and enjoys, collects and enjoys. His trophies are not of the normal sort, nor are they irregular, but rather a soft mix of lush integrity and stark humanity. He polishes these trophies with the same effort and care he gathers new ones. He arranges them, whips them from their natural chaotic state and thrusts them into serenity.
Words are his trophies. Sentences are his shelves. They sparkle and gleam for him. They entrance and ensnare, all for him. And his individual mind possesses a singular path: to introduce humble civility to a world set on falling into self-righeous indignity.
His name is John Francis Hughes and he is the modern gentleman.