He looks at us through layer upon layer of smoke-coloured glass. There is no understanding, no word that can begin to express the loneliness he is shrouded in. Nights pass and days pass and he paces to and fro, driven by a pain that is not his, and that he cannot find a reason for.It is white as snow and bears no footprints. His thought fly from his body before he has thought them out, and are not to be hunted down. At times he feels he is moving inside a large brain. At times he finds himself longing for the absolute perfection of emptiness and non-existence. He is sealed. He fears his own voice and what might tell. Somewhere he has a dwelling he never inhabits, a house with clouds drifting in and out through open windows. He himself is transparent and faintly blueish, like a lake ruffled by slight wind. He is as meek in October. Most of all he fears afternoons, he hallowed long and empty afternoons, when clocks almost stand still and time is a burden on his narrow shoulders. At dusk he goes out and picks a fruit from the great tree whose crown no one can see and whose roots no one knows. This is his one joy.