That’s what he’d always been good at.
Ever since he was boy, it was a necessity, finding those places to run to. A thick book of fantasy, the bottle of Rum, or, perhaps, the twisted perversions most dare to mention. All of the lies he would tell himself.
The escape artist, basking in the light of seclusion and unreasonable reason.
Flash-forward to the life he now knows: the turning away. No longer needed. No longer desired. In his reclusive somber, these things are now his religion. A passionate conviction, it seems. While the world outside passes him by, he remains dormant–caught up within the parallels he has always hurried towards.