Sometimes he felt as if his personal movement...

Sometimes he felt as if his personal movement was to be undermined by fate, that those strings that could possibly hold the universe together not only touch upon everything, but that the movements of celestial bodies acted like a system of pulleys, twisting and sharing the load, the end effect being that he was made to move one way or another, was predetermined to scratch his head there, or check his heartbeat for palpitations, something he had picked up in a frenzy of genetic paranoia after learning that his family had a proclivity for heart disease. A universal machine, one that was formed by the natural laws, that no one could modify without disassembling the entire network, massive and perpetual and powered by some unknown or unproven galactic entity, like anti-matter, and that this machine’s consumption of it could tell us why, despite all of our efforts, we find ourselves unable to detect it. And in spite of its intangibility, every habit we made for ourselves was just another string that happened to be pulled.
That was just the reason why he found himself buried within rows of books at this hour, attempting not to eavesdrop on the inane banter of a nearby table, but failing miserably, mostly because they were making it so easy for him to loathe their easy superficiality, their apparent lack of concern for the fact that he possibly just developed the true theory of the structure of the universe. They couldn’t know, he didn’t tell them, but he felt that for some reason they were required to know. Sometimes he felt that he had earned the right to be noticed for his ideas, even if he never had the courage to declare them. He was aware of his own absurdity.