His heart spasmed every time he overheard men in conversation in cramped quarters, like a bar or restaurant, using the phrases “moving units” or “price per units” or “number of units,” his eyes promptly glazing over no matter where he found himself as he pictured himself in a grey suit with a conservative yet expensive hat, riding in the back of a sleek black car as it drove over a cliff.
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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