Coming up and out of the neighborhood, as if it were Fitzgerald's valley of ashes, or Homer's underworld, he had the sudden urge to hurl his refill mug as far as he could, because he could--though really the culture had paralyzed such impulses for better or worse at a very young age--thus walking naked and unencumbered, although fully clothed, freely and truly as intended.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
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