The man was in love with himself.

Standing before the looking glass, feeling his soul alight, he comes to the rational realization that the mind is selfish and that it is all he knows. The mirror reflects the resisting person. His abused face stares strangely. Shiny bags glimmer beneath his greenish eyes. They leer outward, badly supercilious. Worried. The night hates, morning looms. Obligation nags. The rising sun banishes vivacity's false feeling. Concerns rise like bubbles exploding on the natural surf. The bursted bubbles air their bad toxins. He involuntarily breathes them in, and gains nothing but life's karmic cancer. He brashly knows that he must participate within society's established tyranny. THE WHIPS SCAR. He immediately succumbs. Humility sloops his curved shoulders. Head down, back bent, his soul bleeds. Its red river alarmingly runs, flowing with perdition. Time has determinedly come. Now run, humanity, run.