A person drifts along at a pace that barely qualifies as walking, more of an extended linger, really. One hand nests comfortably in a pocket while the other swings lazily at their side, fingers half-curled and untroubled. Their clothing hangs loose and soft, the kind of outfit chosen for comfort over impression. Each step seems optional, as if they could stop at any moment and be perfectly happy standing still instead. They breathe deeply, taking in the air and the light and the simple pleasure of being outside with nowhere pressing to go. The world moves around them at full speed, and they watch it pass with mild amusement.