half dressed and pacing, the scent of sweat rising ever so gently off his body, he asked her if this was what became of life.
he didn't like the cool air, in these moods. sometimes she thought he wanted to swallow the world, to consume it so that there could be none left. 
he liked the heat his body generated, it's temperature rising rhythmically as he circled his room once, twice, a hundred times.
it is a sort of life, he said, out loud, to no-one, recalling Greene, and then Fanon, Maugham and Heller, Chesterton and Irving, Updike and Plath. 
There were times when the words drowned him. they were too much.

- the scent of his sweat -