Bob could not see it, but the desperation was there. A desperation built of insecurity, of fear of the unknown. A desperation built of his inability to shed skins as he matured. He stands as man who refused to absorb the vernix but rather used it as a protective device – a carapace – for the rest of his life.
Finding any pattern to his life was beyond Bob. He suffered an overwhelming need to hang on, to everything, to hang on in any way possible, in every way possible. His life was so convoluted, so tangled, so intertwined, that it was fast becoming difficult to turn.
It had ever been thus. The thrust and parry of youth precipitated a retreat to his room. An excellent scholar, he buried himself in his books. A passable long-distance runner, he threw himself into the loneliness.
The longer he lived the more secure his mausoleum.