Hermit.

Drank coffee from the Caribbean in the afternoon. He had an enormous god-eye window. He employed a man, he had never met personally, that was in charge of his groceries and other engagements outside his niche. He listened to Ray Charles every day. He laughed at people with umbrellas as he inhaled his own decomposing body. His navel was filled with all sorts of dirt from his house. His hair was tangled with home grown radish roots. He never washed his favorite clothes. He shaved his beard every Sunday and as he watched his own reflection in the mirror he imagined living with company. Sometimes his thoughts were so vivid, a dark red rash violently dressed his skin for several days. He enjoyed the vulgarity of sunlight. His cooking skills were not great, but his stomach still pleaded for his common culinary inventions. His condition had been the same for more than twenty years. The lack of human contact did not affect his mental state. His hands became rough with time. His skin was fragile and sticky. His iris became transparent and his lips melted into his face. His heartbeat changed rate. His eyelids trembled incessantly. His body missed me.