There was a drab, nervous expectancy about the man. An energy system that shifted between a high-keyed jumpiness to an obscurity. At times he would be the center of the room– an electrified keyhole– a bristling electrification of a human form. The next moment he became a proportioned shadow. No face– no details to his being– no face. No details. A lifeless shadow.

His face had the putrid ashen look of a man who for years had existed in the netherworld of his imagination– a wonderland where anything might happen– any wonderful fantastic thing. A face easily centered by rage– a dumb, blank, generalized rage when the environment played tricks– when fate fell badly. 

And so he became a silent man. Brooding, nervous. Trapped within the shell, the trap, of his own layers of skin.