The man is to some degree excessively tall for his build; were he a couple inches shorter he would be all the more attractive for it. It was as though he quit growing just to be extended on one of those medieval racks a half-foot more. His face was for the most part darkened by red scraggly facial hair that clung to his skin like winter attacked ivy rings. The man sits in a natural lodge, watching out a  glass entryway. It's a muggy summer day.
The man is not stylishly dressed: a dark, short-sleeve shirt with a floral printed front pocket; a scratchy, boring shaded arrangement of jeans torn in a couple places. The man's arms, scented with the remainder of bug repellent, are all around ripped enough to demonstrate he can push his way through congested trails; the man’s unpleasant exposed feet are sufficiently calloused to demonstrate he's strolled on rough terrain.
The only noise surrounding him is the murmur of an old cooler. The man's eyes take after a slanting knoll: past, the level plain of salt swamp separated by a winding estuary; advance, a wide swath of stone outcroppings. He enjoys being distant from everyone else; superior to anything working in a urban skyscraper. It's a delightful day, and he can't think about any better place to be — pretty much.
“Not stylishly dressed?” The man interrupts abruptly, seemingly to no one. “You call a floral printed pocket shirt, with ripped jeans not stylishly dressed?”
It is what it is- not stylish. It’s my decision. Does that legitimize the man's interference of a deliberately arranged scene?
"All things considered, I don't care for what you've done. Is it true that you are going to allow me to sit unbothered in a wild asylum? For how much longer?"
Very little more.
“Uh-Huh..”
He’s going to kill himself.
“Woah? Wait.. What!?”
The man is lonely.
“But you said I enjoy solitude.’
He does, and he doesn’t.
“No.”
It’s my choice. I decide.
“I don’t want to die.”
The man doesn’t know what he wants.
“But I do, and I don’t want to die.”
He has nobody to love.
“Write someone in.”
I can’t.
“What the hell do you mean you can’t!?”
There is nothing around the man to love.
"Exactly who or what in this barren spot will be excited by my scraggly red beard? A moose?"
It's not barren. It's paradisiacal. I like his beard.
"Gracious, go ahead. What, precisely, am I expected to be?"
The man is an ecologist.
“Oh, jeez. What exactly is at stake here?”
He’s very intelligent; he’s got a Ph.D. in Ecological Science from Carroll University. His thesis was about the mating habits of geese.
"What's more, you call yourself an author."
I think the man's appealing.
"Then why kill me off?"
Have faith in me. 
"Do I get a name, or would you say you are going to call me 'the man' for whatever is left of the story?"
I haven’t come to a conclusion just yet. I was pondering the name Gregory, or something else, I haven’t thought it through. I’ll think more on it later.
"You must be joking. Did I request that to be a bug spray stinking, muscle-bound, lonely, nameless nobody in an unremarkable bit of fiction by an amatuer?"
Could it be any more obvious? The man hints at being quite canny.
"Quit calling me 'the man,' and, no, I didn't request that. Being nothing is superior to what you've gotten ready for me."
The man is going to fall in love.
“Now you’re not making any sense. You said I had nobody to love…”
The man does have nobody to love.
“You’ve lost me.”
Death.
“What about it?”
He’ll fall in love with death.
“This is getting way too sick and twisted for my tastes.”
I can't simply end the story. I've developed him, and I'm going to accomplish something with the man.
“By killing me off?”
It teaches a lesson.
“A lesson about what? How awful of a writer you are?”
The thing about the lonely, the depressed, the mentally sick, is that he had never been acquainted with that group until the man attempted his life the first time; shortly after his first few stressful years of college. Being as smart as him, grades were never a problem. However, people never seemed to enjoy his company. Once the man was put into an institute that’s when he understood this is a powerless group that is so noiseless. That’s where I come in. That’s the lesson.
“So what? I have to die in order to save other’s lives?”
Basically.
“So I’m like some kind of hero?”
He is simply alone.
“Call me Super Beard.”
Listen; the man is no hero. He is simply lonely. I’m the one teaching the lesson. He is just a means to an end. He is going to look out those glass doors until the sun is no longer kissing the sky. He will abruptly stand up from his seat, and make his way into the kitchen. His rough feet against the cold white tile. The tile that will shortly be stained a deep red. The man will frantically search for release in a blade. Anything sharp enough to make it pre-
“STOP! I don’t want to die. Why can’t I just make a point about how things get better and to keep pushing through. You said I already tried once, and it didn’t work. That was for a reason right?”
Every character needs a back story.
“The End.”
His story isn’t over yet.
“Yes. Yes it is. I’m done. ‘The man’ lives alone in the woods the rest of his life, the end.”
No.
“Yes.”
Fine. The man fights his urges with every every individual fiber in his being. The man lives another day. He keeps this up every single day for the rest of his life. He wakes up, goes and sits by the glass doors, listens to the birds, and stare into the barren world before him. The man sits there every day, sulking… wishing he had the nerve to just end it. But for some reason, unknown to anyone, even the man, he carries on. The man lives alone in the woods the rest of his life. His existence is irrelevant. He has no point. He just is. The man, simply lives.