He shook but invisibly; and it was only his life, after all, that was affected. This love he was addicted to made it impossible for him to thrive; and yet even as he was aware of what was happening to this inner him, he was utterly unable to bear and grin, and rid himself of its terrible powers.
One day he might would, and then as cold as ice he surely should become. And maybe that fear, that reality he saw, was at the core of his resistance to change.
For if he one day did conquer love, and was able to quite happily, quite freely he meant, sell and buy this curious sex, he’d have no need for anyone and over him they’d have no control.
And then he would be totally in charge; and then they’d see, indeed they would.
And so would he.
And that’s just about precisely what made him so frightened of even attempting to beat back this love: a love which clearly in all its senses did marshal and make of his being and soul such a silence-provoking – such a fear-engendering – specimen of distaste. A specimen to never be touched. A specimen of resistible nature for all woman he had ever met, and gently tried to wish.