He's a Mountain of a Man

He's a mountain of a man. It makes you wonder what would happen if he got angry, but he never seems to. The rhythmic tempo of his careful speech is marked, as though he examines each word inside and out with a flashlight and a long stick before using it. It comes at your ears the same way the echoing sound from a conch shell does, and puts you to sleep just as easily. That isn't to say that it's dull. Only that your first reaction when you hear it is to listen very intently, because every word makes itself the most important one, and with all of these important words being transferred into your ears, what else can you do but just listen? He has huge rocks of hands, just as threatening as his height, and just as slow and calming. He moves as though he has a century to do so, and sips his drinks as if they are the most exquisite drinks the world has to offer, and are in short supply from now on. His granite-and-blue colored eyes are even steadier, traveling long distances, and blinking only when they tire, as a hiker rests when he's walked many miles uphill. When he decides it's time to let them break from their constant roving, they settle deeply, and whatever he looks at must remain still, because when he looks at you, what can you do but let him?