1,800 pages, one walk and 24 hours later

I studied him with interest, different thoughts rushing through my head before I could actually grasp or perceive them. He was just kneeling on the cold damp street, looking past me. Something flinched inside me. I eyed him, acknowledged his hunched figure wrapped in a darkened beige coat, his smudged face, the mug he was holding in his extended hand - and I felt hypocritical and vain. The ice crystals in his grey beard were glistening even in the dim light the street lamps managed to shed. I was helpless, excruciated by the emptiness gaping inside. I felt despair, for he didn't bother to shoot a glance at me. There was only one thing I wanted to do."Why?" I noticed the pain lingering in my voice persistently. It was a lot for me to handle. He looked up at me, gazed at me apathetically, vaguely. His blank yet so vivid expression bit right through the shell, sucked in through the tiny pores like some alkaline substance, undisturbed by my always active self-defence mechanism. My eyes prickled and I was forced to blink them. And I knew I couldn't trust him, no matter what he would tell me. I winced away from him, pained, blinded, and rushed through the dusk. I didn't know what to think of myself, I couldn't be certain of what I really thought and felt. And the prospering doubts drove me deeper into madness, fear, suffering.