. . .
He does not see people around him. He sees pieces of what Man can be. His analytical faculty identifies among many components of a person the pieces that matter, that are right, that are good. But men have a low quality; they don't take care of themselves. They lay like a stone on a sand, never touched by the sea, never brushed by the water, never smoothened by the particles of salt. They lay on the sand, a few feet away from the ever-changing waterline. They corrode under the blazing sun, weakened by the shifting wind, scarfed by all into a thing that never was and never will be.
He glances at a girl as she goes by. He does so in a quest to find a full being. One that is not stitched, but is self-built, where pieces are not assembled by a random event, but a product of a concrete goal set forth by a conscious mind aware of its action and its product.
He looks for a few moments longer. He does not like her, but he sees a part of her that is close to an image he has in his mind, the perfect woman, the equal. He judges, he pays attention, but not to her. Instead, he studies a quality that he has chosen. He ponders and plays with a concept, fitting it into his knowledge, taking it apart and combining again, validating and checking. Once more, an image appears before his eyes, a description of someone he's looking for, a template he automatically applies to women he sees and hears about. Most don't pass even a shape test of their minds. He has found that is the way - most are of no value and no concern. He is astonished again by their being.
His eyes drop back to his work.
He knows the one exists. He's sure of it. He can see himself gravitating along a path that brings him closer to his ideal, his equal, but for now he turns back to his thoughts - much to think about, much to do. The person he's looking for must be earned, must be matched, must be awaited.
. . .
