The visionary stood in his complacient state upon a firm wooden podium. His eyes were dull and vague, hinting a sadness so tempted to distill his mask of virtue, that I was surprised he did not revoke all preconcieved and previously mention vigor. A part of the audience, I offered nothing to him but my analysis and critique. "I look at myself," He uttered with the utmost pious tone, "And sometimes I forget about everything else. I think about how things have not turned out the way I wanted them to. My sorrow, my desire, my worries and troubles. My doubts and concerns." His eyes suddenly flashed a hypnotic gaze. "But it all goes away when I begin to think about God, and forget about myself." The poor fellow won me right there. My soul, in that moment of a magnificent humble gesture, grasped for the poor Brother. The unfortunate spirit had lost everything. His will, his meaning, his life. He had caught his wings in the unending web of societal chaos. Our civilization's true face. It was all right now, though, because the pain was numbing away. His wings were torn away, but the blissfully woven silk now spun around him, protected him. He was forever in the net, but forever secured. I wished I could tear his soul open and scream aloud into its empty shell. Every movement, from a waving hand to a nodding head, betrayed the shroud of undeserving virtue he attempted to paint for each of us. He had won me there, but not the way he had hoped. I saw a man's soul, sewn together with the weak but numbing threads of a false hope. A nod of outward respect and inward pity greeted him, and then I was off and out. My mind carried me far from the rest of the half-convinced audience, though I was with them physically. I brought myself to the edge of dreams, and roamed there for some time, pondering if I had some chance to pull the pieces of another broken man from the mess, and show him the inner light.
