that man is not going to see daylight
His soul was sick. He was very sick deep down. He was dying inside; his eyes could no longer see the warm, the near, the real. He seemed to have come from very far only to be leaving again immediately. He was always pretending to be there. His body alone was there, but his soul was absent: it always escape through a hundred fissures, it was in flight always, towards the past, or towards tomorrow, anywhere but in the present.
They looked at eachother across miles and miles of separation. Their eyes did not meet. His fear of emotion enwrapped him in glass. The glass shut out the warmth of life, its human odors. He had built a glass house around himself to shout out all suffering. He wanted life to filter through, to reach him distilled, sifted of crudities and shocks. The glass walls were a prism intended to eliminate the dangerous, and in this artificial elimination life itself was deformed. With the bad was lost the human warmth, the nearness.
They looked at eachother across miles and miles of separation. Their eyes did not meet. His fear of emotion enwrapped him in glass. The glass shut out the warmth of life, its human odors. He had built a glass house around himself to shout out all suffering. He wanted life to filter through, to reach him distilled, sifted of crudities and shocks. The glass walls were a prism intended to eliminate the dangerous, and in this artificial elimination life itself was deformed. With the bad was lost the human warmth, the nearness.