Robert has his mind, a lockjaw sort, always open and dry. It floats and feels removed from the brain as if it belonged to someone else, as if stolen. Robert keeps it thusly, secreted as if it’s presence made him guilty, as if it could terrify and scar.
This practice keeps Robert reclusive, his whole body suffering the shame of his mind, and alone. Between the same walls and within the same atmosphere, one of artifical lights and staid air, he slowly grows accustomed to a life without titillation or impulse.
It is a poor existence, repetitive and dull, one which affords few distractions for this gawping, dense mind. It is also an existence of his design, the inevitable result of his every decision from acquaintances to home.
He doesn’t suffer but for however much suffering a comfortable, laminated life can cause.