Desolation

This is a paragraph from a book i'm writing, it's pretty boring, but I keep writing and writing. I wonder if i'll ever complete any of the books or stories I start, that'll be my next goal. This story is about a gunfighter who is beggining to regret his decisions in life. This is a quick description of who he was.

"He sat at the dining table in the house that his father built long ago, his brown eyes surveying the grain in the wood. The natural consistencies caught his attention the same way most things do that people generally look over, the patterns on a blade of grass, or the thread count on linens. Most people took him for what he was, and what he appeared. A thick sandy brown beard covered his face, and if one looked close enough, they would see strands of red hiding in the brown. The hair on his head was darker and very thick, and if he’d lived to be eighty it never would have receded. On a good day his height was five feet eleven inches, and a bulky one hundred and eighty pounds, which was large for that day and age. When nervous, a stutter would make itself slightly known and then return to depths of his soul when he was comfortable. His guns were always on his hips or within reach. Trust had long since left his company, inside of his racked soul was true loneliness."