Sometimes it seemed to him that the house had a bad wild life of its own; the impression of its evil lingered, in its name, in its atmosphere…

The likelihood of meeting anyone who wouldn’t make him feel even lonelier seemed increasingly remote. Life was a dwindling process now, not a building proposition. He couldn’t imagine being with someone new, opening up, feeling appreciated and understood, without having to explain his dubious non sequiturs and increasingly arcane or redundant frame of reference.

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