comment; raw egg in beer

While painting out the shades of the white square, the gambler indulged himself in thoughts…
During the last year, a strong contempt, to which he had always been inclined, had grown fiercer. His gnawing hatred of humanity had reached such a pitch, that the sight of a disagreeable person, or most people he knew, would etch itself into his brain so deeply, as to require several days for its imprint to be even slightly dulled; a touch of a human form, brushed against in the streets, was a most excruciating torment and he would return to his room in a rage and lock himself in with his books and greasy racing posts.
Here he pickled himself in letters and gambling; everything vanished in the dust from those galloping horses. He was not one to romanticise loosing in this game; a systematic winner, he started to see overwhelming patterns of time floating before his eyes through the hooves of the speeding beasts…shiny numbers, tensed veins, all this made up a real engagement with the pure duration of a detached life
It turned his stomach, the look of disgust and disappointment he received from questioning faces on finding out this was sole occupation. It infuriated him beyond measures; who the fuck were they? WHAT the fuck were they?
And thus, he eventually became a complete recluse (was it even a choice?). Ready to beat the world on half seconds, he took off on his own ... A n y w h e r e o u t o f t h i s w o r l d.

TMR