89

This guy's not too interesting. All the clinginess, all the hurt. He hasn't all that much sympathy for him. Grow a pair, he thinks. He turns his attention to the next person. Rage. Blistering colors -- bright blood red, radioactive greens. Blinding whites. Pain and joy combined into one sensation that is as repulsive as it is alluring. Complete self-interest combined with complete lack of self-awareness. Ego without superego. But very little in the way of intellect. And almost nothing in terms of spiritual acuity. The woman has powerful emotions but, at the same time, is overwhelmingly devoid of any deeper sensation. A nerve both raw and numb. Motivation without goal. He looks for pathos and finds none. He cannot understand. Here is a person, perhaps, who knows nothing of introspection. She could be a giant tongue -- a device for tasting yet not for discernment nor aesthetic appreciation. And there is nothing to speak of as desire. Neither love nor lust. Her self-interest has more to do with an ill-defined insecurity than with a will to succeed. Her rage, similarly, arises not from hurt but from a sense of entitlement based on an amorphous condescension that is, so far as he can detect, entirely irrational.