A man lived in a bubble.
Inside the bubble, it was just the right temperature and humidity, and time went by at a convenient pace, never rushed, never hurried. Just in time. The man, supported by balmy updrafts in the centre of his bubble, floated as he pleased, with the breeze to and fro wherever the bubble took him. It bobbed and dipped, bobbed and dipped, rising high with the occasional gust, then falling almost to the ground. In and out of conversations bounced the bubble, taking with it only the gist. But that was enough for the man. Why should he concern himself with everyday prose?
The man could see the world outside the bubble, yes, but the more interesting reflection was on the surface of his bubble, the world in microcosm as he could see it, tinged with iridescent blue and pink and purple. His peripheral view took in the world. What more information did he need?
The man in the bubble lived happily but faced the constant threat that the bubble would one day land on a rough surface and burst with a splash, carrying his world, as he saw it, away in minuscule droplets that would sink quickly and without a trace into the parched ground. What would he do then, outside his bubble? How could he live in this larger world that he could no longer control?
So whenever his bubble looked like it was about to touch a rough, unforgiving surface, the man would puff and puff and blow and blow and, through the full force of his will, the bubble would first distort into a tortured, twisted shape and then, eventually, spring back into a perfect sphere. As normal. As he liked it. Then, order restored, the bubble would drift away again, on the warm breeze, glinting in the sunshine.