Something I wrote at the coffee shop

I jotted this out on a piece of scrap paper while drinking some coffee this afternoon:
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There is a guy sitting in front of me at the coffee shop who I recognise. Not him per se, but the look. He's abnormally tall -- I can tell this even though he's sitting down. I wonder if his mom still buys his clothes. His pants are too short and beige, and his shirt is gray. His hair is curly and too long. Also, he is very thin -- too thin. What's remarkable about this guy is his apprehension. This is what I recognise. He seems coiled up and about to spring forth. He taps his feet uncontrollably under the table, and clenches his hands together. He looks everywhere but the notebook in front of him, which is open, and I can see a few thin lines written in black pen. I imagine it is a proof -- something from my own life. He gets up and moves to a new seat as people enter the shop. The increase in noise clearing disturbs him. I watch him shift his notebook, and backpack, and legs. He gets a banana from his bag and eats it savagely He has not touched the notebook, and I notice that he doesn't even have a pen out. His knee moves violently, jerked by the tapping foot. I almost catch his eye. I recognise the spastic neuroses he displays -- he must be trying to birth some grotesque mathematical elegance onto that white page. I recognise him because his angst, agitation, apprehension, and fear remind me of everything I feel at Caltech, at least during the bad times. He represents everything I am trying to leave behind, the malignant stresses I'm trying to exorcise. But, I can look at him and recognise these are things I don't feel right now. I am lucky.