His mind had stripped every surrounding object of color, shape and sound. Substance is an illusion that deludes one’s eyes. He claims to have insulated every nerve cell in his nose so that no smell or odor can resurrect any shreds of the past, any associations or residue that may in his subconscious still reside. He boasts the fact that his ears need no plugs to shut off sounds of every kind, for silence reigns in his inner world. In unescapable transactions with Homo sapiens, he wears a pair of gloves that will block any heat emanating from their skin pores. His heart beats at a monotonous rate for sheer lack of excitement. He had parted with both euphoria and rage, with ecstasy and grief, and every emotion that might affect the ebb and flow of his blood. The sexual drive that maddened his teen years was cremated with his very first date, who died before consummating their short-lived love. His diary, which used to record every detail of every single day, every grievance and joy, even every twitch of his face, lies in a heap of ash in a fireplace that had once been blessed with the epithet hearth. He sits before a copy of Waiting for Godot, clad in an invisible armor, waiting for the kingdom to come, which will crumble before his own eyes.