In the center of the world lives a man who still believes that he can change himself. He believes other people are to blame and that he, at his core, is good, only contaminated by the ills of those who surround him. For his birthday his mother bought him a suit, his dad took him to a tailor. On the weekends he reads books and goes for a ride. Fresh air is good for the soul, the cooler the better to cleanse him from the inside, he says, drawing on his gloves and double hat and opening the front door. Breathe, he tells himself, breathe and be renewed. He tinkers with his bike and, occasionally, his car, proud of the grease on his hands, holding them up higher to admire the grit that he believes means he's done real work. Self-doubt he reads as only the rest of the world trying to bring him down. Though often uncomfortable, he tries harder, goes bigger, thrusts his hands into the air to make a point and laughs -- oh, he laughs -- and smiles and looks you right in the eye, looking for a connection to the depth he sees in you and wishes to appropriate for himself. Others take pity on him, holding him by the shoulder and hoping through a gentle touch to ground him, literally to nudge him to feel the earth he stands on and by that to gain perspective. He resists. And he soars instead, discarding contemplation, favoring to be guided by intuition. But his life, same as it ever was, continues to be ill-fitting, to itch and he can't scratch it vigorously enough to get relief. No matter, he's right and everyone else is wrong and this will have to be enough for now.