In photographs he is ill-fitting, eyes darting to the edge of the frame, seeking escape. The world and its habits are a mystery to him. He trips on the cuffs of his trousers. A tie snakes around his neck, tight coils restricting his breathing.
Panic attacks rise up in the most ordinary of places, not visible to the eye of another. Sweat trickles down his back. He is unhooked from reality.
Anger seeps out of him when he least expects it but most often in traffic. He must tamp it down with private curses, weed, irrational hatred of new car owners.
Stuffs clenched fists into his pockets. Moves each limb forwards, sideways, back. Turns the key in the ignition. Tax is out. Insurance looms. NCT long overdue.
Failure beckons. A soft pavement to land on, a hiding place.
In the mirror each morning, he has to check if he still exists.