His yearning consisted of feelings that rose up and demanded some sort of action, but never declared what that action ought to be, and imperiously refused to find any suggestions acceptable. It was a vaunting of his own sensibility as the only touchstone of reality, but specifically in regard to other minds whose differing sensibilities, which were his own, but alienated, haunted him. And it was a whirlwind of thoughts that effectively sealed this sensibility off from the world, except for bright, intense, shards. It was internal weather and he knew enough to keep still and endure it, and to more than just endure it.